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THE SILVER PRINCE 





















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HE WAS SAFE UNLESS — 


[page i 55] 





THE 

SILVER PRINCE 


EDWARD LEONARD 

\) 



FRONTISPIECE 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 

NEW YORK LONDON 

1920 






COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 


ao 






A 


Copyright, 1920, by the Boy Scouts of America 

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OP AMERICA 


OCT 25J920 


©Cl, A576996 


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CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. Bart McGlory’s Luck Turns i 

II. A Scrap of Paper 

III. In the Dark 27 

IV. A Stranger Arrives 38 

V. The “King” Passes On 53 

VI. At Bracklow’s Window 66 

VII. Bull Morgan’s Killer 81 

VIII. Dorn Makes a Hard Decision 93 

IX. The Fight 114 

X. The Man at the Willows 135 

XI. The Speck on the Trail 147 

XII. On the Precipice 162 

XIII. The Crucial Hour 174 

XIV. A Bare Chance 183 

XV. The Life Saver 191 

XVI. Called Back 203 

XVII. In the Moonlight 218 

XVIII. Vengeance 235 

XIX. The Prince Comes into His Own 247 

XX. Cal. Slater’s Ghost 255 

XXI. The Good Old Times 265 






















THE SILVER PRINCE 


CHAPTER I 

BART McGLORY’S LUCK TURNS 

P ERCHED on a rocky shoulder of a pre- 
cipitous hillside Terry McGlory was 
staring across a deep valley to the Sangre de 
Cristo Mountains. It was the end of the day. 
The mountains rose, dim and mysterious, out 
of fast-deepening evening shadows. 

It would have taken very little to send him 
pitching headlong for a thousand feet or more, 
but he was a mountain boy, accustomed to 
dizzy heights, and without the least concern 
for his safety, he kicked his dangling heels 
against the wall of rock. The vast perspec- 
tive that lay before him of range after range 

i 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


of towering peaks stirred his imagination. 
But he was neither poet nor artist — merely 
a hard-headed boy of sixteen who was travel- 
ing a rough road through life — and it was 
not the beauty of the scene that impressed him 
but its practical possibilities. He could see 
eighty, perhaps a hundred miles away, and he 
knew that somewhere between him and the 
farthest rim of peaks there must be huge, un- 
known hordes of gold and silver. Some of it 
would be discovered, a little bit at a time, year 
after year, by roving prospectors; but what 
tons of it there must be, how much more than 
those hunters of riches would ever find. If 
only a man knew just where to go to swing his 
pick in all that stretch of mountains! 

“Gee! If I only knew!” the boy cried. His 
voice rang out over the valley, for there was 
no human being within hearing and he could 
give his most secret thoughts to the wind as 
loudly as the spirit prompted. The only ears 
that might catch them would not understand 


2 


BART McGLORY’S LUCK TURNS 


— for example, the long ones that belonged 
to the three pack burros, which were standing 
as motionless as statues a few feet behind him, 
which indeed were always standing motion- 
less except when kicked and prodded. 

“If pop only had some way of knowing,” 
brooded Terry, “he’d clean up a million in 
no time. But, like as not, he’ll go ranging 
round through these hills the rest of his life 
and find nothing more’n a measly pocket now 
and then. Funny thing luck is. Pop’s, been 
roaming round hereabouts nigh twenty years 
picking up no more’n a bare living — some- 
times not even that. But somebody else that 
had never been out in this country before in 
his life might stumble across a big vein of the 
stuff the very first day. Huh!” 

In disgust with the ways of life he picked 
up a stone as big as his fist and hurled it 
backward over his shoulder. Quite by chance 
it struck one of the burros. The animal 
shifted his ear a trifle — the only sign of life 
3 


THE SILVER PRINCE 

he had shown in an hour — then continued to 
stare out over the valley. 

“Take a lot more’n that to make you stop 
dreamin’, hey, Sancho?” called Terry, toss- 
ing a pebble at him. Sancho stirred not a 
hair. With his long ears thrust forward, he 
seemed completely absorbed in his study of 
the view. Sancho was not a temperamental 
animal. Nothing ever had excited him ; noth- 
ing ever would. He was certainly not a di- 
verting or sociable companion, and now that 
it was growing dark Terry began to feel 
lonely. Putting two fingers into his mouth, he 
gave a long, piercing whistle. From some- 
where far off came an answering “Wow!”. A 
few moments and a sandy-haired, bob-tailed 
dog, his nose as muddy as a rooting pig’s, came 
tearing out of the shadows. 

“Where’s that dad of mine, Red?” inquired 
Terry. “You seen him?” 

“Wow!” answered Red, wagging his stump 
of a tail and springing at the boy. 

4 


BART McGLORY’S LUCK TURNS 


“ ’Bout time he was back, Red. He’s pretty 
late. Sing out for him. Tell him to hurry 
up.” 

Red lifted his long nose into the air and 
gave a long-drawn, dismal howl. But there 
was no answer except the echoes in the hills. 

“Well, it’s supper time, and I guess I’d 
better be getting busy,” said Terry, as he be- 
gan to pile some wood together for a fire. 
After the wood was ablaze he went to the spot 
where he had stored the grub, took out a chunk 
of bacon and some beans, and began to pre- 
pare the meal. 

“Funny what’s keeping pop,” mused Terry* 
“Must have made an extra long hike to-day.” 

While the bacon hissed in the pan Red went 
to sleep before the fire, which shed a ruddy, 
cheerful glow into the dark. Except for the 
crackling of the flames, it was still as death. 
Over the tops of the pines hung a white cres- 
cent moon. The firelight played on Terry’s 
5 


THE SILVER PRINCE 

weather-browned face and black hair as he 
bent over his work. 

Some slight sound disturbed Red, and he 
sat up, staring into the dark. Terry gave his 
whole attention to listening, but he could hear 
nothing but a wind which was rising in the 
valley. The dog’s ears proved keener, for 
after a moment a man without a hat and with 
a prospector’s pick and shovel swung across 
his shoulders emerged from the trees — a 
round-shouldered, gray-bearded man, whom 
Red rushed joyfully forward to greet. 

There was something strange about Bart 
McGlory that night, as Terry was quick 
to realize when his father stepped into the 
light of the fire. The old man had never been 
so silent before on returning from his trips 
through the hills. Always he had had some 
cheery greeting for the boy. But now he said 
not a word. Terry noticed that his father’s 
hands were trembling and that there was a 
feverish glitter in his eyes. 

6 


BART McGLORY’S LUCK TURNS 


“What happened, pop?” asked the boy anx- 
iously. 

The man stepped closer, and grasped his 
son’s arm nervously. 

“I’ve struck it, Terry!” he cried hoarsely. 
“I’ve struck it rich this time. It’s the real 
thing at last, boy. Look here!” 

Bringing from his pocket a handful of 
quartz, he held the bits of rock close to the 
fire, where they glistened brightly in the light. 
They were chock full of silver. Again his 
shaking fingers dipped into his pocket and 
brought out some gleaming white sheets of 
the pure metal, the silver float which is usually 
discovered by the prospector before he comes 
upon what it indicates, the silver vein in the 
solid rock. 

Terry stared stupidly at the glittering hand- 
ful. It seemed too strange to be true, this 
sudden vision of wealth. Disturbing doubts 
took hold of him. He knew enough about his 
father’s calling to recognize at once what rich 
7 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


samples they were, but he know that such 
promising surface indications had led many 
a time to bitter disappointment. 

“May peter out quick like the rest of ’em 
did,” he said. 

“Not this time, son,” his father assured him. 
“It’s a six-foot vein, and I’ve seen enough of 
it to know it’ll hold out. Finest lode I ever 
set eyes on. It’ll run a thousand dollars a ton. 
It’s a wonder. I’ll be a rich man, Terry — a 
rich man after all these years of grubbing.” 

Bart McGlory’s voice broke into a sob, and 
he covered his face with his hands. The sud- 
den realization of the dream of a lifetime had 
overwhelmed him. Never before had Terry 
seen him in such a state of nervous exhaus- 
tion. His face was haggard, his shoulders 
more bent than ever; even speaking seemed to 
cost him an effort. Indeed he had not been 
well for months, and he had been warned more 
than once that the time had come to give up 
his hard life in the hills far out of reach of 


BART McGLORY’S LUCK TURNS 


a doctor. Coupled with the boy’s bewilder- 
ment over the surprising news his father had 
brought was a deep pity for the old man to 
whom tardy fortune seemed to have brought 
only a bitter realization that it had come too 
late. He was getting near the end of his rough 
life, his wife had died in wretched poverty, 
and now, old, tired and disillusioned, riches 
could bring him little pleasure. Yet — and 
old Bart thrilled with the thought — they could 
bring him the satisfaction of providing for 
his son. 

Bart scarcely touched the supper, and 
Terry watched him anxiously. The old man 
had grown silent, but there was still the 
feverish glitter in his eyes. He shivered, and 
crept closer to the fire. 

“I dunno what’s come over me, son,” he 
said at last, “but I’m cold as ice, and weak as 
a cat. Guess I’m too old to stand such a 
surprise. Too much for my nerves. But I got 
to get back to that lode first thing in the 
9 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


morning and make ready to put in my claim.” 

After they had rolled themselves in their 
blankets Terry lay awake until far into the 
night staring up at the new moon and the 
brilliant stars and listening to the soughing of 
the wind through the pines. He felt as if he 
never would get to sleep with his mind in 
such a whirl of excitement over the discovery 
of the lode. 

Along toward morning he heard his father 
stirring restlessly in his blankets and mutter- 
ing to himself. In the gray of the dawn he 
was awakened by the old man calling to him. 

“I’m sick, Terry. I’m burning up with 
fever. We got to pull out of here quick so 
I can get to a doctor.” 

The old man seemed to have aged ten years 
during the night. It was only with a great 
effort that he struggled to his feet. Unsteadily 
he stood staring out into the hills, and Terry, 
fearing his father was about to fall, ran up 
to give him a sustaining arm. 

io 


BART McGLORY’S LUCK TURNS 


“You can never make it, pop,” said the boy* 
“It’s too long a trip. Better stay here till 
you’re stronger.” 

But Bart McGlory shook his head. 

“I know I ought to stay, son,” he said, “for 
I haven’t even staked out that claim. But I’ve 
got to go. I’ll die if I stay here. I’ll hang 
on to one of the burros, and I’ll make it some- 
how. I got to make it without a hat, Terry. 
So excited that I left mine down on the lode.” 

So that morning they turned their backs 
on the fortune that lay waiting for them in 
the hills, and set out on the long trail. 


CHAPTER II 


A SCRAP OF PAPER 

I N one of the brand-new log buildings, 
which had been hastily constructed in 
Willow Creek Gulch after Nick Creede’s 
discovery of the Holy Moses mine brought 
the first rush of prospectors, Joe Teed pub- 
lished his weekly newspaper, The War 
Whoop . In his shirt sleeves, with a green 
shade over his eyes to keep out the glare of 
the sun and an extra pencil sticking out of 
his thick, bristly mop of hair, this journalistic 
pioneer was sitting at his desk writing rapidly, 
pausing now and then to exchange a few 
words with McWhorter, the printer, whose 
press, type fonts, and make-up tables shared 
with the editorial desk the only room the 
building contained. 


12 


A SCRAP OF PAPER 


Though they were newcomers at Willow 
Creek, for nobody, unless it was Creede him- 
self, had been there more than a few months, 
the two men had been associated for years, 
and both knew from long experience the trials 
and dangers of getting out a newspaper in a 
raw mining camp. In appearance they were 
as different as two men could well be. Mc- 
Whorter was tall, thin and narrow-should- 
ered, with an expression of chronic melan- 
choly. The editor and publisher was short 
and fat, and his face radiated good cheer in 
spite of the ugly furrow of an old bullet 
wound across his cheek, a mark left by a peev- 
ish subscriber who had objected to certain 
liberties that had been taken in putting his 
private affairs into print. 

Suddenly the door flew open with a bang. 
Instantly Joe dropped his pencil, and reached 
for a six-shooter, which lay conveniently near 
at hand beside his pile of copy paper. On 
discovering that his caller was peaceable old 
13 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


“Doc” Calaway, he dropped the revolver, 
swung back in his chair, put his feet on the 
desk and prepared to be sociable. 

The “doc” found a chair for himself, wiped 
the dust from it with a large red handker- 
chief, and sat down heavily with his back to 
the door. 

“If you’d turn your desk around so you 
wouldn’t be facing the sun you wouldn’t have 
to mar your beauty with that there eye- 
shade,” he observed as he stroked his gray 
Dundreary whiskers. 

The editor of The War Whoop gave a con- 
temptuous snort. “Yeah,” he returned dryly. 
“I might not be wearin’ an eye-shade, but 
before long I’d be wearin’ wings as like as 
not and playin’ a harp. You got some things 
to learn about the newspaper business, doc. 
Take it from me it would, be a blame fool 
editor that would sit with his back to the 
door. When a subscriber drops in to shoot 
14 


A SCRAP OF PAPER 

the place up I want to see him before he 
begins.” 

“Oh! So that’s it.” 

The “doc” glanced anxiously over his 
shoulder and twisted his chair around so that 
he might keep a corner of his eye on the door. 

“Got any news, doc?” It was Joe’s stock 
question, which he put to everybody he met. 

“Well, I got some,” the “doc” replied. 
“Old Bart McGlory blew into the gulch 
to-day as sick as a poisoned cat. How he ever 
got here is beyond me. Come from way up 
over the range. No horse to carry him; 
nothing but his burrors. Had a ragin’ fever 
for days, so his boy told me, so I filled him 
up to the gills with quinine. Remember that 
boy of his down at Del Norte? Some kid. 
But the most interesting thing is this, Joe — 
the old man’s a little off in his head and he’s 
been ravin’ about a big strike he’s made.” 

The editor stiffened up in his chair. 
“Where’d he make it?” he demanded. 


15 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


“Search me, Joe,” replied the “doc.” “With 
all his crazy talk he’s foxy enough not to let 
that out. Maybe there’s nothing to it — just 
a wild notion that’s come with his fever — 
but it’s worth thinking about.” 

“What does the kid say?” 

“Not a blamed word. Can’t get a thing 
out of him. And that’s why I think maybe 
they’ve struck something.” 

“Anybody heard about it?” 

“Doc” Calaway grinned. “When a feller 
drifts into this gulch with three burrors and 
goes ravin’ all the way along the trail that 
he’s struck it rich I guess it ain’t going to be 
a secret very long,” he answered dryly. 

“Where are they?” 

“Over at Effie Morrow’s. The girl’s got a 
big heart and she’ll be as good as a daughter 
to Bart.” 

Joe got up and unhooked his coat from the 
wall. “Guess I’ll stagger over there and see 
16 


A SCRAP OF PAPER 


’em,” he said. “You can stay here, doc, and 
cheer yourself up talkin’ with Mac.” 

The editor slipped into his coat, dropped 
his revolver into his pocket, and walked out. 
As he stepped into the outer air he heard the 
creek booming under its covering of ice and 
snow, which had held out late against the 
spring thaws. 

He hurried along the rough trail, which 
was the thoroughfare for the unsightly build- 
ings that had been crowded into the deep, 
narrow gulch, until he came to a one-story 
log house half surrounded by willows. A sign 
over the door announced “Meals Fifty Cents.” 

Joe Teed pushed the door open uncere- 
moniously, and stepped inside. A very pretty, 
black-haired, red-cheeked girl, who, in spite 
of her businesslike expression, could not pos- 
sibly have been more than twenty, was scour- 
ing dishes in a corner. 

“Hello, Mr. Teed!” she called. 

17 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


“Hello, Effie,” returned the editor. 
“Where’s the sick man?” 

The girl pointed to the closed door of an 
inner room. “He’s getting a sound sleep,” she 
said. “And he certainly needs it. He was 
all in.” 

Joe stared hard at the door of the closed 
room. “The kid in there, too?” he inquired. 

Effie nodded. “He sticks to his father like 
a burr,” she said. 

The editor reached for a chair, and, placing 
it in front of the girl, sat down and leaned 
toward her, preparatory to seeking confiden- 
tial information. “Heard anything about old 
Bart making a strike?” he asked in a hoarse 
whisper. 

Effie Morrow gave a little laugh, showing 
even, pearly teeth, which added to her 
charms. 

“How could I help hearing it?” she said. 
“He keeps repeating it over and over again 
— like a crazy man with only one idea. But 


A SCRAP OF PAPER 


I doubt if it means anything. He’s not right 
in his head.” 

“What does he say?” persisted Joe. 

“Why, there’s not much sense to it — just 
rambling talk,” returned Effie. “But he keeps 
saying, ‘They call Nick Creede the silver 
king; but I’m the silver king now — and my 
boy’s the silver prince. I’m richer than Nick 
Creede ever dreamed of being.’ ” 

For a moment Joe stared at her with his 
mouth open and amazement in his eyes. 

“He’s the silver king now, and his boy’s the 
silver prince,” he repeated. “Huh! Don’t 
sound very sensible, does it? If he’s richer 
than Creede he’s sure made a whopping big 
strike, and it don’t seem possible that anybody 
could find anything better than the Holy 
Moses or the Amethyst. But — say, Effie, what 
do you think about all this? Isn’t there just 
a chance that it’s so? S’posin’ we have got a 
new silver king and that young Terry’s a 
silver prince?” 


19 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


Effie laid her hand on Joe Teed’s knee, and, 
bending toward him, looked him squarely in 
the eyes. 

“I wouldn’t tell this to anybody but you, 
Mr. Teed,” she said. “But there is a chance 
that it’s so.” 

So startled was the editor by this suggestion 
that he bounced a few inches from his chair, 
and his eyes dilated. “By the great horn 
spoon, Effie!” he cried. “What do you know, 
anyhow?” 

“I don’t know anything for certain,” she 
answered, “but I’ve been putting two and two 
together and drawing conclusions. It’s the 
boy that makes me think the old man’s story 
may not be all a dream. In the first place, he 
won’t let anybody question his father; second; 
he won’t say anything about the strike himself 
one way or the other. He’s got a long head, 
that boy. Why should he be so secretive about 
this if there’s nothing in it?” 

“Search me,” said the editor blankly. 


20 


A SCRAP OF PAPER 


“I’ve got a notion of the reason,” continued 
Effie. “They’re just down from the moun- 
tains. If they found anything, where’s the 
claim been filed? Not here — that’s certain. 
And there’s no filing office in the direction 
they came from. If old Bart’s made a strike 
he hasn’t filed his claim.” 

“Thunder!” exclaimed Joe. “I never 
thought of that. He hasn’t filed his claim! 
And if anybody finds out where he’s made his 
strike he loses everything!”’ 

“That’s it,” said Effie. “Now you know as 
well as I do why you mustn’t breathe a word 
to a living soul of what I’ve been trying to 
figure out. This camp would go wild if they 
really believed Bart’s ravings. In fact some 
folks are pricking up their ears already. And 
if any of ’em knew he’d made a strike and 
hadn’t filed it — well!” She raised her hands 
to emphasize what would be the consequences. 

Thinking deeply over what he had learned, 
the editor set out for his office. But, as he 


21 


THE SILVER PRINCE 

turned into the trail, his admiration for Effie 
Morrow interrupted his chain of thoughts. 

“Wonderful girl, that,” he mused. “Came 
here a few weeks ago without a hundred 
dollars to her name. Went into debt for her 
shack. And now she’s serving a hundred 
meals a day. She’ll be rich sometime. But 
she oughtn’t to be alone nights in a tough 
camp like this, and it’s just as well she’s taken 
in Bart and the kid. They’re better than no 
protection at all.” 

He had gone scarcely a stone’s throw, when, 
happening to glance backward, he caught 
sight of a man, who was turning into the 
willows behind Effie’s cabin. 

“Jim Mora!” exclaimed Joe. “Toughest 
man in camp. What’s he doing round there, 
anyhow?” 

He pondered the matter for a moment, 
shook his head doubtfully, and continued his 
way to the newspaper office. 

From the shelter of the willows Jim Mora, 


22 


A SCRAP OF PAPER 


two-gun fighter and mining camp “bad man,” 
watched the editor pass out of sight. Then 
he proceeded to make a careful inspection of 
the outside of Effie Morrow’s home. Very 
cautiously he peered in, first at one window, 
then at another; then stood for some time 
listening* straining his ears to catch any con- 
versation that might be going on within. 

Late that night Bart McGlory awoke from 
a long sleep. 

“Terry!” he called. 

The boy stepped to the bedside. 

“I guess I must have been talkin’ a little 
wild on the trail to-day, hey, son?” said the 
old man. “Went a little off in my head. But 
I’m all right now. That long sleep did the 
trick. Mind’s as clear as a bell. 7 ’ 

Terry studied his father’s face, and was 
convinced. There was no longer a sign of 
delirium in the clear, bright eyes, though 
they were still burning with fever. 

“See here, son,” said Bart. “I know what 

23 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


my condition is as well as anybody — better. 
And I shouldn’t wonder if I wasn’t going to 
pull through. I’m an old man, and I’m pretty 
sick — sicker than I’ve ever been in my life. If 
I should die I want that strike of mine to go 
to you, and you’ve got to keep mum about it. 
Don’t trust anybody — unless — yes, you can 
trust Effie Morrow. I know an honest girl 
when I see her, and I know she’s got sense 
enough to keep her mouth shut, too.” 

Reaching for his coat, he took out a piece 
of paper and a pencil, and, leaning over to 
the little table that stood beside the bed, began 
to draw a rough diagram. 

“Now watch me,” he commanded. 

Terry followed the drawing as it slowly 
developed. 

“Here’s where we made camp,” said Bart 
feebly, his voice rising scarcely above a 
whisper. “And this is the way I went. Down 
into the valley this way, to this point, where 
there’s a ledge of rocks. From there turn 

24 


A SCRAP OF PAPER 


south, following the ledge for three hundred 
feet or so. Here are three pine trees growing 
out of the rocks. Climb the ledge when you 
get to them. Here, at the top, turn south again 
till you come to where the ledge breaks in 
two. Then down fifty feet, and here, at the 
bottom, is an old tree growing between two 
bowlders. North thirty paces from that you’ll 
come to the edge of my strike. Keep this 
paper sewed in your clothes — and never let 
anybody see it. It’ll make you rich some day. 
But you’re too young yet. Wait till you’ve 
grown a little older — and then go to it.” 

A scarcely perceptible sound at the window 
suddenly turned Terry’s attention from the 
elaborate diagram. 

“What’s that!” he cried, staring at the dark 
panes. 

As he looked the window was slowly raised, 
and Jim Mora’s face appeared in the opening. 
Instantly old Bart’s thin, trembling hand shot 
out and clutched the paper. He knew Mora 
25 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


and what sort of a man he was, and he 
realized, too, what he had come for. 

Holding a six-shooter very carefully, so 
that it covered old Bart, Mora climbed into 
the room. 

“I want that paper,” he said, as he stepped 
toward the bed. 

At the same instant Terry sprang toward 
the table and brought his hand down upon 
the flame of the candle, snuffing it out and 
putting the room into pitchy darkness. 


CHAPTER III 


IN THE DARK 

D EAD silence fell for a moment with the 
darkness. Then a slight sound came to 
Terry’s ears — his father’s heavy breathing, as 
if the old man had fallen asleep exhausted 
by the shock of Mora’s attempt to rob him 
of the one thing that he had to show for a 
lifetime of struggling. 

Terry’s mind was working very fast. He 
realized that Mora’s eyes, as well as his own, 
would soon become accustomed to the dark- 
ness, and that not unlikely the intruder would 
be able to discern then enough of his sur- 
roundings to put him in control of the 
situation. 

At first Terry had been able to see nothing 

— nothing but ink blackness; but now slowly 
27 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


several things were creeping into his vision, 
the shadowy bulk of the bed, the faint outline 
of the window, the feeble glimmer of light 
from outside, which threw a ghostly aureole 
upon the wall. 

Fumbling in his pocket, he found a match. 
He was about to strike it, when the thought 
came to him that doing so would immediately 
give Mora the advantage. If he should strike 
a light Mora would see him at once, while 
his own discovery of where Mora was would 
not be so quick. 

He realized, too, that Mora surely had 
matches with him, being a heavy smoker, and 
that he must have been reasoning along the 
same line as to the folly of lighting one. The 
desperado had to deal with only a sick man 
and a boy, but if he should stand with a light 
in his hand he would be an easy mark in case 
either of the two had a gun. 

The truth was that both father and son 
were unarmed; but there was a rifle under 
28 


IN THE DARK 


Bart McGlory’s bed. The idea of shooting a 
man was not to Terry’s liking, but he knew he 
would prefer to do even that than to see his 
father robbed of the fortune that lay waiting 
up in the hills. 

So, going down on his hands and knees, he 
crept very slowly and silently toward the bed. 
His shoulder brushed against it, and he 
wormed his way underneath, spreading his 
hands out before him feeling for the weapon. 

He found it at last, and was groping his 
way cautiously out with it when it struck with 
a loud clang against the leg of the bed. 

He heard Mora coming toward him; the 
next moment found himself struggling with 
him. He was no match for Mora, who was 
trying to get possession of the gun. For a 
time, aided by the darkness, Terry succeeded 
in keeping his hold on the weapon, but he 
knew it was a question of only a few moments 
at most when it would be wrested from him, 
and then Mora, who must be certain by now 
29 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


that old Bart was out of the reckoning, would 
be able to do as he pleased. 

Terry was getting tired, and his grasp on 
the gun was weakening as Mora tugged at it, 
when the short, sharp bark of a dog sounded 
outside. Terry knew that bark. Red had 
arrived, back from one of his rambles in the 
hills. And Red knew already that trouble 
was stirring that needed his attention, for he 
was growling angrily as he drew nearer. 

“Red!” cried Terry breathlessly. “Red! 
Help!” 

For an instant a dark form appeared in the 
dim light of the open window, and the dog 
came leaping into the room. 

An Irish Terrier — and that was Red’s 
breed — is one of the best-natured of dogs as 
a rule; but when his blood is roused to the 
fighting point, look out for him. A born 
fighter through and through, this sandy- 
haired, long-nosed, sturdy little beast, ready 
to give up his life rather than admit defeat 
30 


IN THE DARK 


but sure to make his foe pay dearly for it. 
And he doesn’t stop for an instant to consider, 
doesn’t care, how formidable his antagonist 
may be. Bull-dog, mastiff, or man, the spunky 
Irish Terrier pitches in, and stays, no matter 
how great the odds against him. 

So Red, true to his courageous race, pitched 
in, caring nothing whether Mora was armed 
or weaponless, big or little. Red never 
worried his long, flat head with such consider- 
ations when he faced an enemy. 

Barely in time, Mora threw up an arm to 
keep the dog from his throat. Over this arm 
Red’s teeth, the long, white, powerful teeth of 
a dog in the prime of life, closed like a steel 
trap. 

Bellowing with pain, Mora struggled to his 
feet, dragging Red up with him. The man 
swung his free right fist to the dog’s head 
with all his force, but Red hung on. Again 
the fist struck him, then opened and caught 
his jaws, prying them apart. Red dropped to 
3i 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


the floor; but Mora was free only an instant, 
for the determined beast immediately seized 
him by the leg. 

Terry could see very little of what was 
going on, but he knew that Mora would 
surely draw his revolver and shoot Red if he 
could not shake him off. The boy had lost his 
gun, Mora having wrenched it from his hands 
just as the dog sprang into the room. It might 
be lying somewhere on the floor, but there was 
no time to search for it. 

His only chance to save Red was to grab 
him and drag him away. Groping for the 
dog, he seized him by the collar, clasped a 
hand over the animal’s nose, pulled him off, 
and drew him away as far from danger as 
the size of the room allowed. 

“I’m going to kill that cur!” growled 
Mora. 

A shot rang through the room; a bullet 
whizzed over Red, and bored a hole in the 
32 


IN THE DARK 


wall. Red barked, struggling to get away, 
furious to renew the fight 

As Mora stood, revolver in hand, ready to 
shoot again, the door was thrown open. 
Facing them was Effie Morrow, in dressing 
gown and slippers, her black hair down her 
back, a menacing pistol in one hand, a flicker- 
ing candle in the other. 

“Don’t you make a move, Mora!” she cried. 
“I’ve got you covered, and you needn’t think 
I won’t shoot.” 

Mora blinked at her stupidly, the sudden 
illumination dazzling him. At best his mind 
moved slowly, and now he was bewildered by 
the rapid shifting of circumstances. 

It had seemed simple enough to break into 
the room and rob old Bart of his secret. Not 
for a moment had he considered the possi- 
bility of being thwarted by unexpected 
developments. Never had he fallen into such 
a streak of bad luck. Everything had 
promised so well; then the light had been 
33 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


snuffed out at the critical moment, and, 
equally unexpected, the dog had taken a part 
in the affair. And now here was a girl to 
deal with. The situation had grown too com- 
plicated for him. He was not a quick enough 
thinker to handle it. 

“Drop that gun,” Effie commanded 
sharply. 

Mora hesitated. He would have preferred 
to have a man facing him from behind that 
threatening revolver. He was not lacking in 
courage, and had been through many a gun 
fight, but being held up by a girl was a brand- 
new experience. 

He studied her face, wondering whether 
she would shoot if he should fail to obey. He 
knew women were uncertain creatures; there 
was never any telling what they might do. 

This girl might shoot, or she might be 
bluffing; she might lose her nerve at the crit- 
ical instant; she might faint — but no, not this 
34 


IN THE DARK 


girl. He could see on closer scrutiny that she 
wasn’t the fainting kind. 

“I’m going to count three,” Effie an- 
nounced, “and then I’m going to blaze away 
if you don’t drop that gun.” 

The gun fell rattling to the floor. 

“What are you doing here, Mora?” Effie 
demanded. 

“I dunno as it’s any of your business,” Mora 
answered sullenly. “There was a bit of im- 
portant information I couldn’t get nowhere 
else so I come here after it.” 

A long-drawn gasp from old Bart caught 
Effie’s attention. The old man’s half-closed 
eyes and deathly white face startled her, for 
he looked as if his last hour had come. For- 
getting Mora for the moment, she hurried 
to the bedside. 

That moment’s respite was enough for 
Mora. He did not need to stoop to pick up 
the weapon on the floor, for, though Effie had 
not realized it, he was a two-gun man, and 
35 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


another six-shooter hung from the back of his 
belt. Quick as a flash, as soon as the girl’s 
syes turned away from him, he whipped this 
out and covered her with it. 

Mora’s hands were far quicker than his 
wits, but his mind was working much faster 
than usual now, and, profiting from expe- 
rience, it occurred to him that Effie might put 
out the candle she carried, outwitting him as 
Terry had done. 

Carefully he struck a match and lit the 
candle that stood on the table. Grinning with 
satisfaction, he turned a corner of an eye on 
Terry and the dog as he watched Effie. 

“Now, Miss,” he said, “I guess it’s your 
turn to drop a gun.” 

With flushed face and flashing eyes Effie 
turned and faced him. 

“You brute!” she cried. “You’ve almost 
done for this old man. Can’t you see the 
condition he’s in? A man like you is low 
enough to do anything. But you don’t dare 
36 


IN THE DARK 


shoot me. If you did there’d be a lynching 
in this camp, and you know it.” 

Mora had had no intention of shooting. He 
had few scruples when it came to killing men, 
but he drew the line at the other sex. How- 
ever, he did not mean to leave that house 
without Bart McGlory’s cherished scrap of 
paper. Now that he had risked so much he 
was ready to go to almost any extreme to get 
it. He moved closer to Effie, threatening her 
with his revolver, and, catching her in an 
unguarded moment, snatched her weapon 
from her hand. 

“Now I guess there won’t be no more 
trouble,” he said with a grin; and, bearing in 
mind that old Bart had taken the paper, he 
stepped toward the bed. 


CHAPTER IV 


A STRANGER ARRIVES 

NEW arrival in the mining camp came 



riding up Willow Creek Gulch that 
night at the end of a journey that had taken 
several days. His buckskin cow pony picked 
its way cautiously and wearily along the trail 
after covering seventy miles since morning 
through the rough hill country that lay to the 


south. 


But the rider, though his cowhide chaps 
and red shirt were powdered with the dust 
of three counties, felt as lively as if he had 
just jumped out of his blankets after a good 
night’s sleep. To bring him even to the 
yawning stage would have taken a good deal 
more than seventy miles of riding. A wiry, 
hard-muscled man, clear-eyed, a picture of 


38 


A STRANGER ARRIVES 


perfect health, he could keep going a day 
and night for forty-eight hours at a stretch, 
and had done so many a time, stopping only 
to change horses, perhaps catching a bit of 
sleep now and then in the saddle. To him 
seventy miles was a short journey — just 
enough to give him a good appetite for his 
evening meal. 

He had counted on being in Creede’s camp 
fc>y dark, but, meeting an old friend at Del 
Norte, had laid off there to chat with him. 
It was now so late that he was wondering 
where he was going to find a night’s lodging. 

So far as he himself w^s concerned, he 
didn’t care particularly whether he found 
shelter, for he could roll up in the blankets 
that were strapped to his saddle and sleep 
anywhere, but he was anxious to get to some 
place where he would be able to give his horse 
a rub-down and a good meal of oats. 

He had passed several cabins, but they 
were dark and silent; not a sign of life any- 
39 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


where. A wind sighed mournfully through 
the willows; thousands of stars shone in a 
cloudless sky; to the west rose a huge range 
of mountains flecked with snow; on either side 
of him the steep stone walls of the gulch 
threw their shadows across the trail; the swift 
waters of the creek, tumbling over their bed 
of bowlders under a roof of ice, sent a sound 
like distant thunder echoing through the 
chasm. 

With lively interest the rider studied his 
surroundings. He was a plainsman, and the 
steep gulch had the attraction of novelty. He 
stretched his lungs with the bracing mountain 
air. 

“So this is Creede’s camp,’’ he mused. 
“Wonder where all the boys are keepin’ 
’emselves. Heard they was roamin’ here from 
all the West, but it sure is some lonely place 
so far.” 

At a bend in the trail a feeble shaft of light 


A STRANGER ARRIVES 

shone from a cabin window half hidden in a 
patch of willows. 

“I reckon this is worth inquirin’ into,” he 
reflected. 

At the cabin door he dismounted, swinging 
the reins over the horse’s head, signal enough 
to any well-trained cow pony that he is to 
stand where he is left. 

He was about to knock, when he heard a 
high, feminine voice, tremulous with excite- 
ment. For a moment he stood listening. He 
heard enough to conclude that something was 
going on inside that needed his attention. 
Very cautiously he tried the door. It was 
locked. Going to the window from which 
came the light, he peered inside. 

One look was enough to stir him into action. 
He threw a leg over the window sill, hoisted 
himself up, and dropped into the room. As 
he did this both hands went to his hips, and 
brought out two huge revolvers. 

Jim Mora, as he reached Bart McGlory’s 
4i 


/ 


THE SILVER PRINCE 

bedside, was startled by a slight sound, a soft 
thud on the floor. He turned quickly. His 
dark eyes grew big with surprise. 

Facing him from just inside the window 
stood a man who, so far as his appearance 
went at least, was a typical cowpuncher. 
High-crowned sombrero, leather chaps, high- 
heeled boots, long, cruel spurs, all spoke of 
the cattle ranges. There was even a slight bow 
to the legs, a peculiarity which almost invar- 
iably characterizes a man who has spent a 
lifetime in the saddle. He was a fairly young 
man, certainly not more than in his early 
thirties, with short, crisp, curly, brown hair, 
a rich, healthy color under his coat of tan, 
and his gray eyes had both the slight squint 
and the far-away expression of the plainsman 
accustomed to gazing over long distances. 

He was crouching just a trifle, his whole 
body tense, alert. But his face bore a boyish 
grin, which contrasted oddly with the sinister 
six-shooters in his hands. He might be 
42 


A STRANGER ARRIVES 


amused, but he was certainly not a person to 
be trifled with — not just then. 

“Put ’em up,” said the stranger quietly. 

Mora threw up his arms. Slow-witted 
though he was, he was a quick judge of men. 
This unexpected visitor surely “had the drop 
on him,” and would undoubtedly prove 
highly dangerous if crossed. 

“Turn round,” the stranger commanded. 
“I don’t like your face.” 

Mora obeyed promptly. The stranger 
stepped up behind him, and snatched his 
weapon from one of his raised hands. Then 
he picked up the revolver and the rifle that 
lay on the floor, and deposited all three in a 
corner. He was careful to keep an eye on 
Mora while he was making sure the weapons 
were safely out of his reach. 

This matter attended to, he stood staring 
at Mora as if wondering what to do with him. 
After a moment he turned his gaze to the 
others. Effle’s back was turned toward him* 


43 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


for she was bending over the bed, anxiously 
giving her attention to old Bart. 

Terry, still keeping a grip on Red’s collar, 
was studying the new arrival with deep 
interest. The dog was no longer growling or 
struggling to get away. He seemed to have 
accepted the latest intruder as a friend. 

“What’s it all about, son?” asked the 
stranger, with a puzzled look in his eyes. 

“He’s a thief,” Terry answered. “That’s 
all. He tried to rob us.” 

The stranger studied Mora again. “Huh!” 
he grunted, shaking his head. House robbery 
was a rare crime in the wild places of the 
West. There were bank robbers and horse 
thieves; but a shack like this didn’t seem to 
suggest much in the way of reward for a 
burglar. 

While he was pondering the matter he 
became aware that Effie had turned, and was 
watching him. Her steady scrutiny seemed to 
embarrass him, for he turned red to the roots 
44 


A STRANGER ARRIVES 


of his hair. Pulling off his hat, he strode 
toward her, his high heels clicking sharply on 
the floor, his spurs jangling. 

“I reckon this pesky crittur has been actin’ 
up pretty bad, ma’am,” he said. “Sorry I 
didn’t come along sooner.” 

“Well, you did come in time to save us a 
lot of trouble,” Effie replied ; “and I’m grate- 
ful. But now what are we going to do with 
him?” 

“I’ve been sort of thinkin’ I’d kick him 
through that window, ma’am,” he said doubt- 
fully, scratching his head, “but I s’pose that’s 
kind of rough-house stuff to pull off before a 
lady. I dunno just what to do with him 
’ceptin’ to turn him loose. I reckon he won’t 
bother you no more.” 

“Yes, let him go,” said Effie. “The sooner 
he’s out of my sight the better I’ll feel.” 

He stepped up to Mora, pointing a finger 
at the desperado’s nose. “Now, you sneakin’ 
hyena,” he said, “you’re goin’ to get out of 
45 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


here pronto , and don’t you come roamin’ 
round here no more, for my triggers are 
mighty loose when I get peevish, and I’m 
plannin’ to make some stay in this here camp.” 

Into Mora’s eyes came a malicious gleam. 
“So you’re goin’ to make some stay in this 
camp, eh?” he sneered. “That’s somethin’ 
that does me good to hear, for I’m countin’ 
on meetin’ you again, stranger, when things 
is more even up.” 

“Oh, that’ll be all right,” returned the 
other, smiling. “And now you git — quick.” 

Mora glanced longingly at his revolvers 
lying in the corner; but he knew it would be 
hopeless to try to recover them. Walking 
quickly to the window, he dropped out into 
the dark. 

“Did you leave a horse out there?” Effie 
cried out anxiously. 

“Yep, I got my horse out there,” the 
stranger replied. “But don’t you worry about 
that, ma’am. That horse don’t let nobody on 
46 


A STRANGER ARRIVES 


his back but me. If that crittur tries climbin’ 
him he’ll get bucked sky high.” 

“But you’d better come outside and watch 
him,” Effie suggested. She led him to the 
door through which he had tried to enter the 
cabin, unlocked it, and stood holding it open 
for him while he stepped outside and looked 
down the trail. 

“He’s makin’ tracks fast,” he said, coming 
back to her. “No danger of him hangin’ too 
close round here to-night.” 

Effie hurried back to Bart McGlory. The 
old man had fallen asleep again, and was 
breathing heavily. She closed the window 
softly, pushed a plug between the jambs by 
way of a lock, and, followed by Terry and 
Red, returned to the man in the adjoining 
room. 

“Somebody sick?” inquired the stranger. 

Effie proceeded to tell him about old Bart, 
and went on to describe their adventure with 
47 


THE SILVER PRINCE 

Mora. She did not say a word about the 
scrap of paper Mora had come to get. 

“Well, ma’am,” said the man at last, “I’ll 
prob’ly be hangin’ out in this here camp for 
quite some time. My name’s Martin Dorn, 
just up from the Panhandle country, and I’d 
be glad to be of help to you in case you need 
me, seein’ you’re livin’ sort of unprotected.” 

“Well, I’m livin’ here,” put in Terry, 
flushing. “I guess I ought to be some pro- 
tection.” 

“You might be, son,” returned Dorn. “You 
might be if you only got to your weapon a 
little faster. And that’s some dog you got 
there. Must have took quite a chew out of 
that gazabo’s leg, I reckon, for I noticed he 
was limpin’ as he vamoosed down the trail.” 

Effie was studying Dorn closely. She con- 
cluded that he might be an extremely dan- 
gerous man for an enemy to encounter; but 
she knew he would have to be a gunman of the 
first class if he meant to remain in that camp 
48 


A STRANGER ARRIVES 


now that he had roused the hatred of Jim 
Mora. 

She doubted if he measured up to that spec- 
ification. He was probably just an ordinary 
cowpuncher, accustomed to firearms but with 
no extraordinary skill with them. He would 
have to be better than that, for it was not only 
Mora he would have to guard against but 
Mora’s friends. Mora was a leader of the 
worst characters in the camp, men who would 
not scruple at murder. And there was no law 
in the gulch — not yet. 

“Are you pretty handy with those guns of 
yours?” she inquired. 

“Well, ma’am, I’m toler’ble fair,” he 
answered. “Always been able to look after 
myself. If I hadn’t been the grass would have 
been growin’ over me long ago.” 

“You’ll have to be more than tolerably fair 
with them if you’re going to stay here,” she 
warned him. “You’ve poked yourself into a 
lot of danger by helping us. Mora and his 
49 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


friends will surely be laying for you from 
now on, and some of them are awfully quick 
on the draw. I hope you’ll not decide to stay 
here. I don’t want to have you shot because 
of what you’ve done for us.” 

Dorn grinned. 

“Things was gettin’ pretty dull down in 
the Panhandle,” he said, “and runnin’ into a 
little excitement’s what I need to get my blood 
to circulatin’ proper. That’s jest what I come 
up here for, to see some fun, and it can’t come 
too quick to suit me. I reckon I ain’t no more 
likely to get hurt than those other fellers.” 

Effie stared at him anxiously. He looked 
like a good-natured, easy-going fellow, his 
face was so frank and boyish and innocent, 
that she was sure he would be like a lamb 
among wolves if he should fall in with Mora’s 
crowd. 

“I wish you wouldn’t stay,” she urged 
again. “You don’t realize what a desperate 
SO 


A STRANGER ARRIVES 


lot those men are. They’re trained gun-fight- 
ers. They know every trick in that line.” 

“Oh, that don’t worry me none, ma’am,” 
said Dorn. “I got wind down in the Pan- 
handle that pretty nigh every high-class 
gunman that isn’t dead yet had been headin’ 
this way. There can’t be so very many of ’em. 
The West’s changin’ fast. Most of that kind 
are in their graves.” 

He moved to the door, standing in awkward 
embarrassment, fingering his sombrero. 

“I reckon I better be goin’ now, ma’am,” 
he said. The door closed behind him, and a 
moment later Effie and Terry heard the patter 
of his horse’s hoofs as he rode away. 

“Poor, foolish, reckless chap,” cried Effie. 
“He’s going to stay — to stay and be killed. 
Oh, why didn’t I urge him harder to go!” 

A lump came into Terry’s throat; a feeling 
of dread crept over him, the fear that he was 
never again to see Martin Dorn alive. To 
him the man was a hero. The boy’s heart had 
Si 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


warmed to him; and now he felt like running 
after him to give him one more warning, to 
make one desperate effort to save him from 
danger. But the hoof beats had died away, 
and he knew it was too late. 


CHAPTER V 

THE “KING” PASSES ON 

W HEN Terry, lying in his blankets on 
the floor, snuggled up beside Red, 
awoke the following morning, his father was 
still sleeping soundly. The old man’s heavy, 
long-drawn breathing worried the boy; but, 
after a little thought, he concluded that his 
father would surely wake much better after 
such a long rest. 

As he watched the sleeping man, the edge 
of a piece of paper, protruding from under 
the pillow, caught his attention. He pulled it 
out. It was the crude map showing the way to 
old Bart’s strike. 

“Better not leave it here,” Terry mused. 
“Wouldn’t be safe and he thrust it deep into 
an inside pocket of his coat. 

53 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


“This thing might have been worth a 
million dollars to Jim Mora for all I know,” 
he muttered. “P’raps more. Pop knows a 
good vein when he sees it, and he was dead 
sure he’d made a whopper of a strike.” 

Visions of wealth stirred his imagination. 
He began to speculate on what he and his 
father would do with a million dollars. 

A huge ranch, stocked with thousands of 
head of horses and cattle was what appealed 
to him most and had, as he knew, been the 
dream of his father for many a long year. 
But Terry fought against feeling too con- 
fident. They weren’t rich yet — perhaps never 
would be. 

From the other room came the sounds of 
heavy feet on the bare floor. Men were troop- 
ing in for breakfast, miners, most of them, for 
they were the earliest risers in the gulch. He 
went out and joined them. And it was then, 
for the first time, that he realized how the 
54 


THE “KING” PASSES ON 


camp was ringing with the news of old Bart’s 
discovery. The men talked of nothing else. 

“Why, hello, kid!” cried big Steve Bailey. 
“How about that strike? Hear your old man’s 
took Nick Creede’s title of silver king away 
from him, and that you’re the royal heir 
apparent.” 

Terry gave a disgusted grunt. “I can’t keep 
you fellers from thinking’ what you want to,” 
he replied. Beyond that cryptic remark 
neither Big Steve nor any of the others could 
get from him the slightest hint of how much 
truth there was in what they had heard. And 
Effie was equally uncommunicative. 

“I guess you’re all right, kid,” Big Steve 
admitted at last. “Hang on to your secret 
There’s more’n one claim jumper round here. 
If your old man’s really found anything you 
and he’d better be mighty careful.” 

But most of the miners could not restrain 
their curiosity, and, anxious to get away from 
them, Terry made a more hurried breakfast 
55 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


than usual; then, accompanied by Red, went 
out on the trail, intent on finding Dorn. 

A string of burros, laden with heavy loads 
of boards, which they were about to drag up 
to the Last Chance mine, stood dreaming in 
the sun in front of a shanty used as a general 
store. Down the steep grade of Mammoth 
Mountain was coming a train of heavy 
wagons. 

But it was too early in the day for the 
camp to be fully awake. Only the miners 
were astir. The saloon keepers, the gamblers, 
the dance hall contingent and the desperadoes, 
all of whom formed a large part of the pop- 
ulation, had not gone to bed until sunrise and 
would not be up until the middle of the after- 
noon. 

A short distance away a frowning preci- 
pice, towering for a thousand feet or more, 
completely blocked the trail. At the base of 
this huge wall stood a one-story building of 

56 


THE “KING” PASSES ON 


rough, unpainted boards known as the Denver 
Exchange, a gamblers’ paradise. 

Leaning his back against the front of the 
building was a tall, smooth-shaven, light- 
haired, blue-eyed, boyish-looking man puff- 
ing a cigar. His sombero was tilted rakishly. 
Around his waist was a gun belt, heavy with 
cartridges. 

At first glance Terry had mistaken this man 
for Dorn, but, on drawing a little nearer, dis- 
covered his mistake. Terry knew who the 
man was. He had heard his name a thousand 
times, a name notorious throughout all the 
West, and had seen him once at Del Norte. 
This man was Bob Ford, the slayer of Jesse 
James. 

“Hello, kid,” called Ford. “Whatcher 
doin’ — hie — up thish time o’ day? ’Sno time 
for anybody to be up. Ought to be sleepink” 

Ford’s eyes were red, his lips swollen. It 
was plain that he had been carousing all night 
and had forgotten his usual hour for going 
57 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


to bed, which was when most steady-going, 
law-abiding folk are waking for the day’s 
work. 

Terry had sense enough to get away from 
him as quickly as he could. He had a deep- 
seated contempt for men who drank until 
they were maudlin, and a particular contempt 
for this one, who, he knew, had like a coward 
shot Jesse James in the back to win the reward 
that had been offered for the train robber 
alive or dead. And Ford and James had been 
friends. 

Terry sauntered about the camp for the 
rest of the morning without finding Dorn, and 
began to think he must have changed his mind 
about remaining in the gulch and had fol- 
lowed Effie’s advice not to risk his life. 

After a time the clearing in front of the 
row of stores, saloons, gambling halls and 
dance halls began to be more thickly peopled. 
Men who had been up all night put in an 
appearance, yawning and lazy, waiting for 

58 


THE “KING” PASSES ON 


their best hours to begin with the coming of 
darkness. 

Quite a number of Creede’s distinguished 
citizens were strolling about. There was even 
Nick Creede himself, a quiet man with 
dreamy eyes and a sprinkling of gray in his 
hair and mustache. There was Bat McMas- 
ters, who held a hazardous job as the Denver 
Exchange’s “bouncer,” and who had been 
famous as a man-killer years before in the 
cowboy days of Dodge City. 

There was Jack Lewis, the best-known 
faro dealer in Colorado. The fame of the 
Holy Moses mine had brought the remnant 
of the wild characters who had followed the 
trails of “Forty-Nine” to California, of those 
who had been in the rush to roaring Leadville, 
and also a later crop of soldiers of fortune. 
At Creede the desperadoes and gamblers of 
the old West, which was so soon to pass away 
forever, were making their last stand. 

A little mongrel dog ran up to Red, 

59 


THE SILVER PRINCE 

growling and snapping. The dog’s collar was 
of solid gold, in which were set diamonds, 
rubies, and emeralds. 

“Come here, Whiskers!” It was Creede 
who was calling, and who a moment later 
stepped up and pulled the little beast away. 
The discoverer of the Holy Moses fairly wor- 
shiped that dog. He never let him out of his 
sight. 

Old Bart had told Terry the story of 
Whiskers. Year after year the dog tramped 
with Nick Creede through the mountains. 
Many a day they both went hungry. Creede 
was poor, living through the spring, summer, 
and fall on grub stakes while he prospected 
with little success for gold and silver. In the 
winter he sometimes found a job at Del 
Norte. 

One day Creede was smoking his pipe and 
resting at a spot in the Sangre de Cristo 
Mountains. The song of the swift Saguache 
River lulled him to sleep. When he awoke 
60 


THE “KING” PASSES ON 

he saw Whiskers grubbing away where he 
smelled a wood mouse, or gopher, or the track 
of a gray mountain squirrel. Some of the rock 
the little dog clawed out rolled to where the 
prospector sat. He picked up some of it. Im- 
mediately his interest quickened. He broke 
the rock across the head of his pick, kindled 
a fire, burned some bone-dry pinon, and 
roasted the stones on the hot coals. Little 
beads of perspiration, half the size of an 
ordinary pinhead, came to the surface. They 
were beads of gold. With tears in his eyes, 
Creede looked up at his dog. “Whiskers,” he 
said, “you’ve given me my start at last. Here’s 
where I make good. And when I cash in 
you’re going to wear a gold collar with real 
jewels in it and take things easy for the rest 
of your life.” Creede cleaned up several thou- 
sand dollars from that strike. It came at a 
time when it saved him from utter despair. 
And a little later he and Whiskers stumbled 
61 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


across the Holy Moses, which made him the 
richest prospector in the West. 

As Terry recalled this story, he studied 
Nick Creede with renewed interest. 

“He don’t look as if he had more’n enough 
to buy a string of burrors,” he muttered, 
“except for that dog collar. And, for all the 
luck he’s had, he’s sure the unhappiest-lookin’ 
feller in the gulch.” 

Always a moody, melancholy man, this trait 
had grown upon the silver king as he pros- 
pered. He had no idea of what to do with 
his money. Beyond the little that he needed 
for his living expenses, he found his great 
income useless. Life was growing tedious. 
Often he told his friends that he longed for 
his old, lonely days of poverty in the hills. 

“Guess money isn’t everything, after all,” 
mused Terry. “But if pop makes good on his 
strike I’ll bet I’ll look a durned sight more 
cheerful than the owner of the Holy Moses 
does.” 


62 


THE “KING” PASSES ON 

Along came Joe Teed, out hustling for 
news. 

“How’s your old man?” asked the editor. 
“Getting along all right, eh? That’s good. 
Tell him I got a piece about him in the paper. 
And say; whatever he happens to tell you 
about his strike just keep it to yourself, son. 
Bart’s talked too much already. This camp’s 
gettin’ mighty curious, and he’ll have a peck 
o’ trouble on his hands if he don’t look out.” 

Joe ambled along on his tour of the camp, 
leaving Terry to continue his search for Dorn. 
Still no sign of him. 

“Got cold feet, and skipped out, all right,” 
Terry decided. “Guess he was wise, too. Yet 
I kind o’ thought he wasn’t the kind of feller 
who’d quit like that.” 

At that moment the door of Doc Calaway’s 
office, close beside him, was thrown open, and 
out came Dorn. 

“Where you been?” demanded Terry. 
“Been lookin’ for you all the mornin’.” 

63 


THE SILVER PRINCE 

“Yeah?” returned Dorn, staring at Terry 
solemnly. “Well, I was settin’ out right now 
to look for you. Only rolled out o’ the hay 
an hour ago. Up all night. Out seein’ the 
camp with some o’ the boys. Great place 
this.” 

“Gee!” exclaimed Terry. “You been 
makin’ the rounds all night knowin’ there was 
fellers layin’ for you? You got your nerve 
with you all right. Thought you’d skipped 
out.” 

“Not me, son. I don’t skip out whenever 
some folks get to feelin’ peevish toward me. 
Huh! I’d be skippin’ out of places all the 
time if I was that yaller.” 

Yet, in spite of his apparent indifference to 
danger, a decided change had come over 
Dorn. There was no longer the merry twinkle 
in his eyes that had been there the night 
before. He was no longer smiling. His face 
was very grave. Terry had an intuitive feel- 
64 


THE “KING” PASSES ON 


ing that something had gone wrong, and he 
looked up at Dorn anxiously. 

Throwing a caressing arm around the boy, 
Dorn stood silent for a moment. 

“I got bad news for you, son,” he said at 
last. “I dropped in down where you’re livin’ 
a few minutes back, and ” 

He broke off abruptly, and gazed off into 
the mountains. A vague sense of dread crept 
over Terry; for a moment his heart seemed 
to stop beating. 

“Your father died this morning,” said Dorn 
suddenly, jerking the words out with an effort. 
“I got to spring it on you blunt and plain that 
way, youngster, or I’d never bring myself 
to it.” 


/ 


CHAPTER VI 

AT BRACKLOW’S WINDOW 

O N the broad mesa that overlooks the 
valley just south of Creede a solitary 
coyote, his nose raised to the full moon, was 
sending his shrill, mournful yelps echoing 
through the hills. 

Coyotes and wolves could skulk in that 
lonely spot with small fear of being disturbed 
by human beings. There were men there, to 
be sure, but they were lying in their graves. 
Living men came to the mesa only to bury 
their dead; unless, at long intervals, some 
mourner wandered there, and such visits were 
rare indeed after dark. 

Yet this night human eyes were watching 
the coyote — the eyes of Terry McGlory. He 
had come to visit the spot where for a week 
66 


AT BRACKLOW’S WINDOW 


his father had been lying in his last resting 
place, fenced in with crude pickets to keep 
out the marauding beasts that prowled 
through those barren wastes. 

Terry had brought his rifle with him, and 
the coyote annoyed him. He did not like to 
have such beasts prowling so near where his 
father lay. He raised the gun to his shoulder. 
The coyote was in plain sight, but at a distance 
that made him a difficult mark by moonlight, 
though it would have been easy enough in the 
broad glare of day. 

Terry, however, was a good shot with a 
rifle — better than most men. Wandering 
through the mountains old Bart had given 
him a wide experience in that line. He fired 
at the dim, gray shape outlined against the 
sky and saw it fall. 

“Might as well get the skin,” he thought. 
“It’s worth a couple o’ dollars.” 

Knife in hand, he was bending over the 
coyote, when a horse and rider came into 
67 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


sight in the wide, moonlit valley below. There 
was something about both horse and man that 
aroused his interest, for, even at that distance, 
the man bore a dim resemblance to Jim Mora, 
and the horse was not unlike Mora’s pinto. 

Terry now had more reason than ever for 
watching Mora. Dorn had found an unoccu- 
pied shack in the gulch, and had taken the boy 
to live with him. To the camp’s orphan 
“prince” the Texan had become like an older 
brother, and fear of what Mora’s hate might 
lead to kept Terry on the alert whenever he 
caught sight of the desperado or his com- 
panions. Terry fairly worshiped the man 
who had taken him under his protection; the 
danger that hung over Dorn worried the boy 
day and night. 

The horseman was coming nearer the 
mesa. To get through the valley in the direc- 
tion in which he was headed he would have 
to pass a point not a stone’s throw away from 
the spot where Terry was now crouching low 
68 


AT BRACKLOW’S WINDOW 


to escape being observed. A few moments 
passed. The boy could hear the crunching of 
the horse’s hoofs on the dry, sandy soil. The 
moon shone on the rider’s face. It was Mora 
beyond a doubt. 

Terry waited for him to pass on; then 
scrambled down into the gully through which 
he had disappeared and followed the horse’s 
tracks. He knew where Mora was going. 
He was going to a lonely shack in the hills 
where Mat Bracklow lived with his Mexican 
wife. It was the only place he could be going 
to in that direction. And Mora and Brack- 
low were friends, men of the same mold, secre- 
tive, tricky, defiant of law or order. When- 
ever there was trouble brewing that involved 
either, the other was sure to come to his 
friend’s assistance. In fact, they were mixed 
up together in so many shady schemes and 
crimes that what was a menace to one was 
always a menace to both. 

Terry was glad Red was not with him that 

69 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


night. It would have been hard to keep the 
dog out of reach of Mora’s sharp eyes and 
ears. The trail to Bracklow’s shack was 
rough, steep, and had many sharp turns. Care 
was needed not to come in sight of his quarry 
at some abrupt twist in its course. Mora was 
riding very slowly. He could not have gone 
very fast through such a place, but he was 
apparently in no hurry. 

About a mile from the point where he had 
turned away from the mesa he pulled his 
horse up in front of a rough log cabin, which 
stood directly at the foot of a steep, barren 
slope. Light shone from the windows through 
bright red shades. Bracklow’s wife was fond 
of vivid colors. Mora swung his reins over 
the horse’s ears to the ground, pushed the door 
open without taking the trouble to knock, and 
went inside. 

Though Mora had left Dorn severely alone 
for a full week, Terry knew enough about the 
desperado to realize that he was merely bid- 
70 


AT BRACKLOW’S WINDOW 

ing his time that he might lay his plans more 
carefully before acting. 

He wouldn’t act without Bracklow’s help; 
that was certain. In such plots the two were 
always together. That Mora would leave 
Dorn in peace indefinitely was incredible. He 
never forgot a grievance, and his way of 
settling his scores with his enemies was always 
with a gun. Nothing could be plainer than 
that, with the treatment he had received at 
Effie Morrow’s still rankling in his mind, he 
would soon be talking the matter over with 
Bracklow behind those red shades and dis- 
cussing what he meant to do. 

If Terry could overhear their conversation 
he might learn something that would save 
Martin Dorn from a sudden death; and to 
save Dorn’s life he was ready at any time to 
risk his own. 

There were only two windows in the cabin, 
one in the rear, the other in front next to the 
door. There was danger in standing so close 
7 r 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


to the door, which might be opened at any 
moment. He went around to the rear. The 
window there was closed tight, and was com- 
pletely covered by the red shade. He would 
have to risk standing near the door after all. 

He had noticed that the little front window 
was open three or four inches, and that, al- 
though the shade was drawn, the wind now 
and then puffed it out enough to give an occa- 
sional view of what was going on inside. 

So he came around to the front again, where 
the window was low enough to allow him to 
look within whenever the shade was blown 
up. In the dim moonlight there was not 
much danger of being seen if he were careful, 
though there was a very decided danger that 
some one would come to the door between 
gusts of wind, when the shade would shut off 
his view, and open it without warning. 

As he stood with his face close to the open- 
ing in the window he caught a brief glimpse 
of Mora and Bracklow, sitting facing each 
72 


AT BRACKLOW’S WINDOW 


other across a small table, and of Bracklow’s 
fat, dark-skinned, slatternly wife busy with 
her household chores. 

The two men were of much the same type 
in appearance, tall, strong-limbed, dark, but 
Bracklow had a beard, while Mora wore only 
a thick, ragged mustache. Their voices, how- 
ever, were in sharp contrast, Mora’s deep and 
firm, Bracklow’s rising from faint undertones 
to a thin, shrill pipe. It was easy for Terry 
to tell which was speaking, even when he 
could not see. 

True to Terry’s expectations, the men had 
begun to talk of Dorn at once. 

“I dunno what brought him up this way,” 
Mora was saying, “but since he don’t seem to 
have no business to attend to here he’s likely 
to duck out any day now. I tell you we’ve 
waited too long already, Mat. We got to act 
quick to make sure of that durned, grinnin’ 
fool. No man can hold me up like he did to 
me and get away with it. I’m goin’ to shoot 
73 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


daylight clear through him before I’m done.” 

“Only we don’t want to go about it too reck- 
less, Jim,” came Bracklow’s thin treble. 
“There’s enough fellers makin’ fools of 
’emselves with their gun play round here 
without us joinin’ in. We don’t want to drop 
him without seemin’ to have some cause. 
That might have been all right a few weeks 
back, but the gulch is gettin’ too blamed civil- 
ized lately, and there’s a lot of minin’ men 
down there that’s gettin’ their backs up 
against promiscuous killin’.” 

The woman lifted her head from her work, 
and looked at the window. Terry ducked his 
head ; then, fearing she might be about to raise 
the blowing shade stole around to the side of 
the cabin. After waiting there a breathless 
moment, he returned very cautiously. The 
shade was still down, and again he stationed 
himself at his listening post. 

It was Mora who was speaking now, speak- 

74 


AT BRACKLOW’S WINDOW 


ing loudly, banging the table now and then 
with his heavy fist. 

“I’ll get him any way I can, Mat,” he 
roared. “I don’t care for them minin’ men. 
They’ve been doin’ a lot of talkin’ about clean- 
in’ up the camp, but they don’t dare do nothin’. 
We boys have got ’em scared.” 

“I dunno about that,” returned Bracklow. 
“They’ve been raisin’ some dough for a law 
and order campaign, and they hired some 
pretty handy gun fighters last week. We want 
to go slow and sure.” 

“Yeah,” sneered Mora. “Well, it’s time 
we got busy and gave those handy gun 
fighters a try-out. This Dorn hangs out in 
Muller’s place every night. It’ll be easy to go 
in there and start some kind of a row. Then 
we’ll get him. Didn’t Bob Ford and Joe 
Pastor shoot the lights out in that joint a 
month ago and clean the whole place out, and 
get away with it?” 

Muller’s place was the Denver Exchange, 

75 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


the principal resort for the camp’s gamblers. 
With more or less success Muller and his 
partners had been trying to keep out the gun- 
fighting element of the population. They 
chose to have their place conducted in an 
orderly manner. 

“All right, Jim,” piped Bracklow at last. 
“All right. We’ll walk in there to-morrow 
night, and pull the business off. To-morrow 
night about eleven. There’ll be a big crowd 
there at that hour.” 

“That suits me,” said Mora. He got up, 
and strode to the door. 

The red shade blew up in the nick of time 
for Terry to see him coming. Running around 
to the side of the cabin, Terry heard the door 
open. He did not dare go further, for his 
footsteps seemed to sound loudly in the silent 
night. He threw himself sprawling on the 
ground, close against the cabin wall, and lay 
there, scarcely daring to breathe. 

He was on the wrong side of the building, 

76 


AT BRACKLOW’S WINDOW 


the side that Mora would have to pass on his 
way back to the gulch. On a dark night he 
would have been safe, but now it was almost 
as bright as on a cloudy day. 

For several minutes the two men stood talk- 
ing in the doorway. Their voices were 
pitched in lower tones, and Terry could hear 
only a little of what they were saying. At 
last he heard Mora climbing into the saddle. 
Terry snuggled close to the cabin wall, and 
held his breath. 

Then Mora and the horse came into sight, 
not twenty feet away from him. But Mora’s 
face was toward the trail that lay ahead of 
him. He turned neither to right nor left. 

Then, when Terry was beginning to breathe 
again, the rider turned in his saddle. He was 
looking straight at the cabin, and Terry gave 
himself up for lost. The horse stopped. The 
man seemed to be pondering whether to re- 
turn, as if he -had forgotten something he 
wished to say to Bracklow. 

77 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


“He sees me,” thought Terry. “He can’t 
help it.” And Mora surely would have seen 
him if he had not had so much on his mind 
that night. As it turned out his sharp eyes 
were not so vigilant as usual, and he saw noth- 
ing but the cabin, with its lurid red shades. 
If he had meant to return, he changed his 
mind, for, after a moment’s pause, he rode on 
toward the gulch. 

When horse and rider were well out of 
sight Terry got to his feet, and, fearing Mora 
might return after all, left the trail and took 
a round-about course through the hills to the 
camp. 

On arriving there, he went straight to 
Dorn’s shack. Dorn was not there. Terry 
surmised that he might be at Effie Morrow’s. 
He had been taking a keen interest in Effie 
since the night he had first met her, and 
through the week that had gone by he had not 
let an evening pass without calling at her 
cabin. And Effie seemed pleased with his 

78 


AT BRACKLOW’S WINDOW 

visits. Though he was a mysterious character, 
who dropped not a word of what had brought 
him to the gulch and who seemed to have no 
business there, she had evidently taken a great 
liking to him. 

Sure enough, the Texan was at Effie’s. 

“Well, well,” said Dorn with a grin, as 
Terry came in. “We have the silver prince 
with us again. And lookin’ kind of solemn 
and serious. What’s on your mind, son. 
Somebody jumped your strike?” 

“I been up at Bracklow’s,” said Terry. 

“At Bracklow’s!” cried Effie. “What on 
earth were you doing there?” 

“Listening,” Terry answered. “Standing 
outside a window hearing things. Jim Mora 
was there.” 

Dorn laughed. “I’ll betcher heard a few 
words about me all right,” he said. “Spill it 
out, kid. Let’s hear the worst.” 

Terry sat down and told his story; told it 
in every detail. He had a good memory. He 
79 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


had forgotten scarcely a word of what he had 
heard at Bracklow’s window. 

“You’re some detective all right, son,” said 
Dorn when Terry had finished. “I got to 
hand it to you. So they’re goin’ to get me at 
Muller’s to-morrow night, eh? Guess it’s just 
as well that I know about it. You’ve done me 
a good turn, youngster. I’m grateful.” 

“He’s saved your life, that’s what he’s 
done,” cried Effie. “If he hadn’t brought you 
this warning you’d have gone there to-morrow 
night and been killed.” 

“Well — p’raps,” said Dorn. “Somebody 
might be killed, anyhow.” 

“You’d better stay clear away from the 
gulch to-morrow night,” Effie cautioned him. 

Dorn stared at her for a moment. 

“Stay away!” he echoed. “Why, girl, I’m 
goin’ to spend to-morrow night at Muller’s, 
sure as you’re born.” 


CHAPTER VII 

BULL MORGAN’S KILLER 


T ERRY got little sleep that night. Some- 
times he would doze of! as he lay in his 
blankets on the floor of Dorn’s shack — there 
was no bed in the place — but he would soon 
find himself wide awake again, his mind full 
of what had passed at Bracklow’s and full of 
worry about Dorn. Terry was afraid. His 
nerves were on edge. He believed his friend 
would surely be shot if he went to Muller’s. 
And the man was determined to go to Mul- 
ler’s. Effie had argued and pleaded with him, 
but he had been as stubborn as a mule. 

Very late in the night Dorn came in, and 
after that, whenever Terry awoke, he found 
the Texan sleeping soundly beside him. Dorn 
evidently was not troubled by uneasy nerves 
81 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


and was not of the worrying kind. He re- 
fused to allow the news of Mora’s plans to 
interfere with his rest. 

Long before Dorn’s customary rising hour 
Terry was up and out. He strolled down to 
Effie’s for breakfast. He had sold two of his 
father’s three burros, and for a while did not 
need to worry about where money for meals 
was coming from. Dorn had offered to lend 
him money, and Terry had refused it, for he 
had resolved not to run into debt even to his 
best friend. He intended to find work soon, 
to save from his wages, and then — well, he 
hadn’t forgotten the treasure that might be 
waiting for him far off against the Sangre de 
Cristo range. 

Joe Teed also came to Effie’s for breakfast 
that morning. Effie, who had not seen him 
for several days, was too busy in her role of 
restaurant proprietress to exchange more than 
a few words with him. 

“Please stay around a little while after the 
82 


BULL MORGAN’S KILLER 


men are gone, Mr. Teed,” she said. “There’s 
something I want to ask you. And I want to 
talk with you, too, Terry.” 

After the last meal had been cleared away 
she was ready for her talk with the editor. 

“You’ve been in the Texas Panhandle coun- 
try, haven’t you, Mr. Teed?” she said. “I 
just happened to think the other day that I 
had heard you say so once.” 

“I sure have,” Joe replied. “Down there 
a year ago.” 

“Did you ever hear of Martin Dorn down 
there?” she pursued. 

“Sure I heard about him. And I’ve gradu- 
ally been making up my mind to talk to you, 
and to Terry, too, about that man.” 

“What do you know about him?” Effie 
asked. “He’s as reticent as an oyster when it 
comes to talking about himself. You know 
Mora’s after him; and Dorn seems just like 
a big, reckless, innocent boy compared with 
Mora and Bracklow and that kind. I don’t 
§3 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


believe he knows what he has to expect from 
such men. He packs a couple of guns, and I 
suppose he may know how to use them a little, 
but he’s like a lamb among wolves.” 

The editor raised his eyebrows a trifle, and 
looked at Efiie curiously. 

“Like a lamb among wolves,” he repeated 
with a touch of irony in his tone. A little 
smile crept into the corners of his mouth. 
“Well, I’d hardly say that, Effie. I guess the 
wolves will find this lamb of yours a mighty 
hard proposition to tackle.” 

He turned to Terry. 

“Terry, you’ve been roaming round in the 
mountains with your father, dreamy-like,” he 
said, “living a nice, peaceable life, with no 
chance to get into bad company. But I knew 
your mother down at Del Norte, and she al- 
ways said you had fighting blood in your 
veins, though it might take a long time to 
show itself. She said she could see it in those 
snapping eyes of yours. Bart never had a 
§4 


BULL MORGAN’S KILLER 


drop of it, but your mother’s father was a 
terror. Guess they had to enlarge Leadville’s 
cemetery owing to that gun of his. Mebbe 
some of his fighting blood’s come down to you, 
and will crop out some day. If I were you, 
youngster, I’d keep an eye on myself, and not 
get too chummy with any of these gun fighters. 
Some of ’em may look to you like heroes, and 
all that kind of stuff, but they don’t live long. 
The graveyard up on the mesa’s filling up 
with ’em fast.” 

“I don’t see why you have to preach to him 
like that,” put in Effie. “Terry’s got too much 
sense to make a hero of any of that kind.” 

“Mebbe he has,” returned Joe. “I hope so. 
But he’s gone to live with Martin Dorn, and 
that kind of worries me.” 

Effie flushed. “I don’t see what you’re 
driving at,” she cried sharply. “You don’t 
mean to say that Martin Dorn ” 

“Now, young lady, don’t get excited,” the 
editor interrupted. “If you’ll just calm down 

85 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


a bit I’ll tell you and Terry all I know about 
this Martin Dorn.” 

Terry got up and walked toward the door. 
“If you got anything to say against him,” he 
said sullenly, “it won’t make no difference to 
me. I’m going to stick to him. Guess I know 
a real man when I see one.” 

“Come back here,” Joe commanded. “You 
don’t know what I got to say yet.” 

Terry obeyed, grudgingly, and sat down. 

Joe slowly lighted his pipe. When he had 
got it going he drew his chair close to Terry 
and Effie, and leaned toward them confiden- 
tially. 

“Down in the Panhandle lives a rancher 
named Morgan,” he began. “Big, red- 
headed, red-whiskered cattleman; strong as an 
ox; arms like a gorilla’s; bull-necked. That’s 
why he’s known as Bull Morgan. Got a big 
ranch; four or five thousand cattle on the 
range. But he’s got enemies ; always did have. 
He’s been makin’ ’em all his life. A bad tem- 
86 


BULL MORGAN’S KILLER 


per, and a bad man to cross. Good many of 
his enemies are cattle rustlers, who raid his 
ranges. He’s always made it hot for that kind. 
But they’re not the only ones that hate him. 
He’s always had his way, and he’s never let 
no man put anything over on him. He’d 
rather quarrel than eat. A man like that’s 
likely to be bored full of holes any day down 
in his country, and, though Bull Morgan’s a 
terror with his fists, he’s never been much 
good with a gun. Fists don’t count for much 
down there except just once in a long while, 
and Bull Morgan would prob’ly have been 
planted long ago if he hadn’t hired a killer. 
He hired the best gun fighter in three coun- 
ties to protect him from the men that were 
laying for him and to get after the rustlers 
that were stealing his cattle. And, believe 
me, that gun fighter did some cleanin’ up. 
He’s got a list of dead men to his credit that 
would fill a book.” 


87 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


“I don’t see what all this has got to do with 
Dorn,” Effie interrupted with a yawn. 

Joe stared at her in surprise. 

“Why, it’s got this much to do with him,” 
he said. “This Dorn is Bull Morgan’s killer.” 

The color went out of Effie’s face. A be- 
wildered look came into her eyes. She was 
silent for a moment. 

“Oh,” she said at last, very slowly and 
softly. “So Dorn is Bull Morgan’s killer.” 

Joe turned to Terry. “I know you’ve taken 
a liking to him, Terry,” he said, “and I don’t 
blame you. He’s been pretty good to you. 
And I’ve got nothing against him beyond 
what I’ve said. Outside of bein’ a profes- 
sional gun fighter he’s white clear through; 
not a yaller streak in him. He never killed a 
man without givin’ him a fair show, and 
prob’ly never killed a man that didn’t de- 
serve it. But I advise you not to travel too 
much with that kind, Terry. First thing you 


BULL MORGAN’S KILLER 


know he’ll be puttin’ gun fightin’ ideas into 
your head, too.” 

“No,” Terry said. “I’ll never use a gun to 
anybody unless I have to. But I’m going to 
stick to my friend, even if he is Bull Mor- 
gan’s killer.” 

“If he’s Bull Morgan’s killer, what’s he 
doing up here?” demanded Effie, suddenly 
taking hope that Teed was mistaken. 

Tse paused again to light his pipe. 

“I can tell you what he’s doin’ up here,” he 
answered. “It puzzled me for a while, but 
I’ve found out. Another man from the Pan- 
handle blew into the gulch yesterday, man 
named Garner. I knew him when I was down 
there, and his word’s as good as the Gospel. 
Garner’s been telling me the story. It seems 
that one of Morgan’s enemies was a man 
named Rufe Dallas. One time when Dallas’s 
hand wasn’t too near his gun Morgan got hold 
of him, and pretty nigh pounded the life out 
of him. After he’d got out of the hands of 
89 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


the doctor, Dallas set out to get even. He 
managed to catch Morgan alone, and got the 
drop on him. Then he proceeded to shoot 
him up. He didn’t want to kill him. He just 
wanted to leave his marks on him to be re- 
membered by. He didn’t shoot at any fatal 
spot, but his bullets broke one of Morgan’s 
arms and both his legs, so that he’s likely to be 
a cripple for life. Then Dorn got busy. 
Dorn’s always had a powerful fondness for 
Bull Morgan, and he was mad clear through. 
He swore he’d get Rufe Dallas even if he had 
to chase him round the world. Dallas, of 
course, knew Morgan’s killer would be after 
him, and he skipped out in a hurry. There’d 
been a lot of talk about Creede down in the 
Panhandle, and by and by Dora got wind that 
Dallas had told friends that this gulch would 
be his address after he’d roamed round for a 
while till he thought Dorn would be tired of 
lookin’ for him. So Dorn headed this way, 
and he’s waitin’ here for Dallas.” 


90 


BULL MORGAN’S KILLER 


Joe got up, and laid a hand on Terry’s 
shoulder. 

“Young feller,” he said, “it’s all right to 
stick to your friends; but I’ve lived a blamed 
sight longer than you have, and I’ve known 
many kinds of people. I know it’s best to be 
careful about pickin’ friends before you stick 
to ’em. If you want to get ahead in the world, 
keep shy of the gun-fightin’ kind. And keep 
shy of the sportin’ crowd and the gamblin’ 
crowd that’s makin’ this gulch a bad place to 
live in. The time’s drawing near when all 
that riff-raff’s goin’ to be cleaned out of here. 
Sensible business men are cornin’ in here now, 
more and more of ’em every day, and they’ll 
have the upper hand presently. There may 
be a rich strike waitin’ for you up in the 
mountains. You’ve got a great chance if you 
keep your head. You’ll be somebody some 
day, when these desperadoes and gamblers are 
in their graves. Some of ’em are clever, 
mighty clever in their line; but the world’s; 

9i 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


full of clever men that never amount to any- 
thin’. The cleverest men I ever knew were 
crooks or failures of one kind or another. 
There was just one flaw in their cleverness; 
they weren’t clever enough to see that it’s hon- 
esty and steadiness of purpose that put a man 
further ahead than just brains alone.” 

Terry went to the door. 

“I’m going back to Dorn,” he said. 

Eflie ran up to him, and grasped his hands. 

“Don’t go back, Terry,” she pleaded. “You 
can stay here. Or Mr. Teed will take you 
with him. He can find room for you in his 
cabin.” 

Terry pulled himself away. 

“I’m going back to Dorn,” he said, and, 
stepping out, closed the door behind him. 


CHAPTER VIII 


DORN MAKES A HARD DECISION 

A LITTLE after dark Dorn stepped into 
^ his shack, and found Terry there. 

“Hello, son!” he called. “Just stepped in 
here a minute on my way to have a little chat 
with Effie Morrow. Just can’t keep away 
from that girl somehow. Reckon she’s got 
me locoed for fair.” 

“Better keep away from her now,” Terry 
said soberly. “She’s been hearing things 
about you.” 

Dorn wheeled suddenly, and faced him. 

“Eh!” he exclaimed. “She’s been hearin’ 
things? What things?” 

“She’s heard all about you being Bull Mor- 
gan’s killer,” Terry told him. 

Dorn stared into the boy’s eyes, but said 
93 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


nothing. After a moment he turned away, 
and stood at the open door, looking out into 
the night. 

“Son, I reckon she’s heard the truth,” he 
said at last. “I’m Bull Morgan’s killer all 
right. Just a killer. I ain’t fit to associate 
with the likes of her. I never dared tell her 
what I was, or what brought me here. I 
thought too much about that girl to have her 
turn against me.” 

Pulling out his revolvers, he began to look 
them over closely. But Terry knew that his 
mind was not on them. There was a brood- 
ing, far-away look in his eyes. 

“Reckon these shootin’ irons of mine are my 
only friends, Terry,” he said. “They don’t 
care what I am. Whenever trouble’s brewin’ 
they’re always by me, ready to help, and I can 
always count on ’em. You’re right, son. I 
better stay away from Effie Morrow. Now I 
can go up to Muller’s to-night without doin’ 
any worryin’ over what may happen there. 
94 


DORN MAKES A HARD DECISION 

Don’t make much difference now whether I 
get shot up or not.” 

“What’s the use of going to Muller’s?” 
questioned Terry. “You don’t have to go.” 

Dorn glanced up at Terry quickly. 

“Now don’t you be puttin’ bad ideas into 
my head, youngster,” he said. “First thing 
you know you’ll be gettin’ me into bad habits. 
I may be only a killer but I’m no coward, and 
I’ve got to go to Muller’s all right. I’d never 
have no more respect for myself if I didn’t.” 

The Texan looked at his watch, slipped his 
guns into his belt, and started to walk out. 

“You goin’ to take me to Muller’s with you 
to-night?” asked Terry. 

Dorn grinned at him. 

“I reckon not, son,” he said. “It’s no place 
for you at any time, and it sure won’t be to- 
night.” 

“I could bring a gun along, and I might be 
of help to you in case you got into trouble 
there,” urged Terry. 


95 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


“And you might get a hole drilled through 
you,” added Dorn. “No, sir; you don’t go 
to Muller’s with me. I’ve always been able 
to look after myself all right without a nurse, 
and it’s mighty little help you’d be.” 

He strode out into the dark. “Goin’ to do 
a little roamin’ round,” he called back. “I’ll 
be driftin’ in here as usual along toward 
mornin’ — p’raps.” 

Terry turned to Dorn’s collection of guns, 
and started to look them over. He picked out 
a nickel-plated six-shooter, and slipped it into 
his pocket. It was loaded. He had made 
sure of that. 

Then he sat down and waited — waited for 
the evening to drag by. Red came in, and 
Terry talked with him. Up in the lonely 
mountains, with the dog as his only com- 
panion for many hours at a time, he had fallen 
into the way of holding conversations with 
him; and now he told him all that was on his 
mind. Now and then Red would wag his 
96 


DORN MAKES A HARD DECISION 


tail and give a little bark by way of holding 
up his end of the conversation. 

At half-past ten Terry went ou , ordering 
Red back, and walked toward Muller’s. 

Muller’s windows were ablaze with light. 
As Terry drew near he could hear the loud 
talk of men inside. It was never a quiet place 
after dark. He pushed the door open, and 
walked in. Bat McMasters, the bouncer, 
standing just inside, gave him an inquiring 
look, seemed about to order him out, then ap- 
parently changed his mind, as if such an action 
were not worth the trouble. 

At the farther end of the big, low-ceilinged 
room the bar stretched from wall to wall. 
From the ceiling hung big oil lamps, swing- 
ing in clouds of tobacco smoke. On the floor 
stood many round tables at which groups of 
men were seated playing cards. 

In Muller’s place that night were all the 
famous gunmen of the West. Creede was the 
one remaining wide-open, booming, lawless 
97 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


mining camp in the country, the last refuge 
for the desperadoes of the old, wild days be- 
fore advancing civilization crowded them, the 
hardened old warriors from Leadville and 
Sierras, and for the younger men who fol- 
lowed their example. 

All these men Terry knew by sight, and he 
stared at them with a feeling of awe as he 
recalled the stories he had heard of their ex- 
ploits. Even Clarence, the quiet, timid- 
looking bartender, he knew had won a repu- 
tation as a killer in Leadville’s blooming days. 
At a table near the door sat Charlie Creek, 
known as “Broken Nose,” who bore the scars 
of half a dozen bullet wounds. 

In a corner stood Billy Meyers, who had 
been a marshal in several Kansas towns and 
who was reputed to have peopled several 
graveyards. Walking down the center of the 
room was Jack Murray, who had once killed 
a man from a fast-moving railroad train at 
two hundred and forty yards. And McMas- 
98 


DORN MAKES A HARD DECISION 


ters, the bouncer, also had a reputation that 
was not to be sniffed at. 

Terry stood against the wall near the door, 
and looked over the room for Dorn. At first 
he could not see him, but he located him at 
last sitting at a table near the bar, and next 
to the passageway running up the center of 
the room from the door. 

Terry reasoned that Dorn must have chosen 
his position in the room with an eye to as 
much safety as possible. From where he was 
sitting the Texan could see everybody who 
might come up the passageway, and at the 
same time he was so far from the door that he 
was not likely to be seen quickly by any one 
coming in. That would give him an advan- 
tage in case Mora or Bracklow should appear. 
But Terry counted less on this fact after he 
discovered that several friends of Mora were 
scattered through the room. His heart sank. 
The odds seemed to be terribly against Dorn. 

And yet, what would Charlie Creek and 
99 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


Billy Meyers and Jack Murray be doing in 
case Mora and Bracklow should try to start 
a row in the place? When Terry considered 
the presence of those formidable gunmen the 
outlook did not seem so dark. And then there 
was Clarence. And McMasters. Both these 
men were to be reckoned with in case of a 
disturbance. 

Perhaps, Terry thought, Muller had taken 
precautions since the night when Bob Ford 
and Joe Pastor had shot out the lights. 
Neither Creek, Meyers, nor Murray was 
taking part in the card games. They seemed 
to be there with some other purpose than the 
one that had brought the gamblers. 

Suddenly the big pendulum clock, hanging 
against the wall just above Clarence’s head, 
caught Terry’s attention. It was seven min- 
utes past eleven, seven minutes past the hour 
Bracklow had named. 

At that moment the door opened, and Mora 
walked in, Bracklow following close behind 


ioo 


DORN MAKES A HARD DECISION 


him. They strode up the center of the room, 
and sat down at a table not ten feet from Dorn. 

Terry moved nearer, until he could watch 
their every movement. His hand was in his 
pocket fingering the gun that lay there. He 
did not want to use that gun. The idea of 
shooting a man sent icy shivers through him. 
But he gritted his teeth together, and told 
himself that he would use it if it would help 
Dorn. 

After a moment Mora suddenly jumped to 
his feet, and gave a shrill, long-drawn call, 
like an Indian war whoop. He was tuning up 
for action. At the same instant he raised his 
gun at one of the hanging lamps. 

Before he could shoot, the weapon was 
knocked from his hand by Billy Meyers, who 
had been watching the pair from the moment 
they entered the door and who had stolen up 
behind them. 

Meyers knew Mora had been threatening to 
“get” Dorn, and, knowing the character of 
IOI 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


the desperado, had surmised that he and 
Bracklow were not there that night with any 
peaceable purpose in mind. 

“Nothing doing here in that line,” said 
Meyers quietly. “Better get out, both of 
you.” 

Mora flashed a murderous look at the man, 
and Bracklow sprang up, gun in hand. 
Meyers hated Mora, and might have shot 
him, but he knew that he himself would be 
shot instantly by Bracklow if he did. In fact, 
Bracklow looked as if he were about to shoot, 
anyway, but, happening to glance over 
Meyers’s shoulder, he saw Jack Murray 
standing close behind him ready to take a 
hand. 

Not far away stood Charlie Creek, also 
prepared for action, while behind the bar 
Clarence was grinning at what was taking 
place and was holding his right hand sus- 
piciously near his hip holster. 

Mora, finding himself in such a helpless 


102 


DORN MAKES A HARD DECISION 

position, broke into a torrent of abuse. He 
was white with anger over the humiliating 
way in which he suddenly found himself 
baffled. But he did not dare reach for the 
remaining gun in his belt. He would have 
been shot as soon as his hand touched it. 
Meyers, perfectly cool, let him talk himself 
out. 

“Better get out of here, both of you — 
pronto,” Jack Murray said sharply. “We’ve 
stood about enough of this. The time’s passed 
when bums could butt in here and do as they 
liked.” 

Mora, his eyes blazing, wheeled on Murray 
furiously. He was like a maddened panther, 
hemmed in and harassed by enemies. Before 
the whole roomful of men he was being put 
to shame. Any instant his temper might drive 
him beyond all bounds of caution. If that 
should happen he would pay for it with his 
life, and with Bracklow’s life, too; but two 
or three other lives would surely be snuffed 
103 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


out at about the same moment. Bracklow, 
though by nature more cautious and under 
more self-control than his friend, was not the 
kind of man who would desert him if shooting 
began. 

Bat McMasters picked up the gun that 
Meyers had knocked to the floor. “Don’t 
make a fool of yourself, Jim,” he said, hand- 
ing Mora the weapon. “Go along out, and 
forget it. We don’t want a row, and you 
don’t, either.” 

The bouncer, who could be something of a 
diplomat when he saw that more aggressive 
methods would be unwise, had a soothing 
effect upon the desperado, who, after a mo- 
ment’s thought beckoned to Bracklow, and, 
followed by his friend, left the place. 

The door had scarcely closed behind them, 
when Dorn sprang up and followed. 

“Thought so,” muttered Terry. He had 
convinced himself that Bull Morgan’s killer 
would not be satisfied with being shielded by 
104 


DORN MAKES A HARD DECISION 


the men who had interfered with Mora’s plan. 
Mora had set out at last to get him, and the 
time had come to settle the matter. 

Dorn was swinging into his saddle, when he 
caught sight of Terry coming after him. 
Mora and Bracklow were already almost out 
of view down the gulch. They had not sus- 
pected that Dorn would follow them, and had 
not seen him come out. 

“Now you run along down to the shack, 
and stay there,” said the Texan, scowling. “I 
got bad business on hand, and I don’t want 
you hangin’ round me.” 

Before the words were out of his mouth he 
was gone. 

“Two to one,” thought Terry. “What 
show’s that fool man goin’ to have? I got to 
follow, somehow. I just got to do it.” 

A row of horses was standing in front of 
Muller’s place waiting for their riders, who 
were inside. Terry was considering the risk 
105 


THE SILVER PRINCE 

of taking one, when Joe Teed came riding 
up. 

“Lend me your horse, will you, Mr. Teed?” 
called Terry. “It’s important. I got to get 
somewhere quick. FU bring him back soon.” 

“Sure,” the editor replied good-naturedly. 
“I won’t need him for a while. I’m going 
inside.” And, without demanding any fur- 
ther explanation, he turned the animal over to 
Terry, and went into Muller’s. 

There was now no sign of Dorn or of the 
men he was following. Terry rode fast down 
the trail, slackening speed only at some sharp 
turn or at some spot where the willows pre- 
vented him from seeing ahead, for he did not 
want Dorn to discover that he was on his 
track. 

The gulch grew wider, the roar of the rush- 
ing water in the creek more subdued. A wide 
valley opened out before him. The moon 
hung over it. He could see clearly for sev- 
eral miles; and over toward the mesa a lone 
106 


DORN MAKES A HARD DECISION 


horseman was following the trail that led to 
Bracklow’s. 

Terry drove his heels into Joe Teed’s horse. 
The beast was old, but it could make speed 
when prodded. And speed was necessary 
now for Dorn was more than a mile ahead of 
him. In these open spaces the Texan might 
look back but Terry would have to run the 
chance of that. Anyway even if discovered, 
he was determined to stay, no matter what 
Dorn might say. 

Dorn disappeared around the head of the 
mesa, and when Terry caught sight of him 
again the distance between them had lessened 
perceptibly. Then, a moment later, as he 
himself rounded the mesa, he saw Mora and 
Bracklow riding slowly. They were almost 
at the point where the trail began a steep 
climb into the hills. 

The night was as still as death. Not even 
a breath of wind came sighing out of the hills, 
not even the distant yapping of a coyote call- 
107 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


ing to the moon. Dorn was drawing very 
close to his enemies now, and Terry knew that 
any moment might bring the crisis. A strange 
feeling was sweeping over the boy, a feeling 
that he had never known before. It was not 
fear — far from it. For the first time in his 
life the love of battle was waking in him. 

His fighting spirit was up at last, the spirit 
his mother had seen in him but which had lain 
dormant through the years of his lonely wan- 
dering in the hills. The spirit of his Lead- 
ville grandfather was stirring in his veins. As 
his fingers felt eagerly for the revolver in his 
pocket, his horse stepped on a patch of loose 
slag and precipitated a tiny avalanche down 
a steep slope. At the sound of the falling 
stones, Dorn turned sharply in his saddle and 
discovered that he was being followed. 

Instantly Dorn turned his horse, and came 
riding back. His eyes were blazing, his face 
flushed, for he was furiously angry over this 
interruption in his plans which had come just 
108 


DORN MAKES A HARD DECISION 


at the moment when he had expected to close 
in on Mora and Bracklow. 

“Didn’t I tell you to stay away from me?” 
he shouted. “You get out of here pronto !’ 

A mule-like stubbornness had taken hold of 
Terry, and he did not flinch before the 
Texan’s flashing eyes. 

“I got a gun in my pocket,” he answered, 
“and I’m going to stick. Two against two is 
fair enough, isn’t it? You can’t fight both of 
’em without a good chance of getting shot.” 

“I’d run a good chance of gettin’ shot all 
right if I had you to look after,” returned 
Dorn. “You don’t think I’m goin’ to take a 
kid like you into a fight, do you? Hurry up, 
now, get out of here. I got no time to waste.” 

But Terry remained obdurate. 

“I can use a gun all right,” he argued. 
“And I got fighting blood in me. I’m not go- 
ing to have folks calling me a coward because 
I wouldn’t help save you from being killed.” 

“Get back!” shouted Dorn, turning to fol- 
109 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


low the two desperadoes, who were almost 
out of sight up the trail. Terry dug his heels 
into his horse, and came after him. 

Again Dorn stopped and turned ahout. 

“You little fool!” he snarled. “D’you want 
me to turn back and let them two cheap 
bluffers and the whole camp think I’m afraid 
to fight?” 

“That’ll be better than getting shot up,” re- 
turned Terry. “No use arguin’ with me. 
You’ll turn back or you’ll take me along with 
you. Guess you’ll have a chance soon enough 
to show you’re not afraid of ’em. But what 
chance would you have against the two of ’em 
up in that trail? They’d lay for you behind 
trees, and drop you before you could get in a 
shot.” 

The Texan groaned. He realized now that 
it was useless to try to turn Terry back, but 
he could not make up his mind to turn himself 
and let Mora and Bracklow escape. His 
reputation was at stake. He would go on, and 


IIO 


DORN MAKES A HARD DECISION 

let the boy take his chances. If the young fool 
insisted on getting shot — well, then he would 
get shot, and have only himself to blame. He 
spurred his horse forward up the trail. He 
could hear Terry following close behind. 

“I’m not the kid’s nurse,” the gunman mut- 
tered angrily. “I won’t let him make a fool 
out of me. I’m goin’ to see this business 
through to-night and have done with it, and if 
the fool kid gets a bullet in him it’ll be no 
affair of mine.” 

The trail grew steep and narrow, winding 
through forests of fir, spruce and lodgepole 
pine. There was not a sound but the beating 
of the horses’ hoofs. 

“I’m not the kid’s nurse,” Dorn muttered 
again. But the Texan’s mind was uneasy. 
Gradually his determination to go on was 
weakening. He began to imagine Terry fall- 
ing before the desperadoes’ shots. And he be- 
gan to understand that he was perhaps leading 
the boy to death. He was fond of Terry; in- 


iii 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


deed he had never fully realized until that 
moment how much the boy meant to him. 

He pulled in his horse, and waited at a bend 
in the trail as he turned the matter over in 
his mind. Far ahead he caught an instant’s 
glimpse of Mora and Bracklow, and at the 
sight his fighting spirit rose. He must go 
ahead. No matter at what cost, he must prove 
to Creede camp that night that he was not 
afraid of these two men who had come riding 
into the gulch to Jkill him. 

Then he heard Terry’s horse close behind 
him, and again he hesitated. He could see 
now where his duty lay, but he tried to blind 
himself to it. The fighting spirit of Bull 
Morgan’s killer was struggling with Martin 
Dorn’s better self. 

He turned about in his saddle, and, catch- 
ing sight of Terry, his anger rose again. 
Terry had pulled out his revolver, but Dorn 
did not see it until, an instant later, the moon 
came out from behind a cloud and its rays 


1 1 2 


DORN MAKES A HARD DECISION 

glittered on the barrel of the weapon. That 
flash of light decided the gunman, for it made 
clearer to him the fact that the boy was actu- 
ally ready to fight. 

“Stick that gun in your pocket,” Dorn 
growled. “We’re goin’ back.” 

“Going back?” echoed Terry. Dorn’s 
words had given him a shock of surprise and 
disappointment. 

“Yes, you ornery young fool, we’re goin’ 
back,” snapped the Texan savagely; and, boil- 
ing with anger, he turned his horse toward 
the camp. 


CHAPTER IX 


THE FIGHT 

T ’LL be gettin’ a swell reputation in this here 
camp if you keep trainin’ along at my 
heels,” said Dorn sullenly, as he sat in his 
shack with Terry. “Folks will think I’m a 
quitter for sure. And some time that cuss 
Mora or his pal will plug a bullet into my 
back without givin’ me a chance. That’ll be 
the end of your makin’ a fool out of me that 
night up in the hills.” 

“I’m not going to butt into your business 
any more,” returned Terry. “I know now I 
got no right interfering, and I guess you know 
how to look after yourself without me trying 
to help.” 

This admission by Terry seemed to improve 
Dorn’s temper, and the old, good-natured grin 
1 14 


THE FIGHT 


came back to his face. “ ’Bout time you was 
gettin’ a little sense in your fool head,” he 
said. “Now I can go ahead and square ac- 
counts with Mora and Bracklow without doin’ 
any more worryin’ ’bout you. And then, after 
I’ve tended to another little bit of business 
I’ve got waitin’ for me, I’ll be hikin’ back to 
the Panhandle country, I s’pose. Back to the 
Panhandle to take up the old job of bein’ Bull 
Morgan’s killer.” 

He was silent for a moment, and his eyes 
grew serious. 

“Sort of rubs me the wrong way to think 
of leavin’ this camp,” he muttered, half to 
himself. “Don’t want to leave you, Terry, 

and — er ” He hesitated, and looked up 

from his work of cleaning a revolver. “Say, 
son,” he asked suddenly, “I wonder if that 
girl would stay sore at me if I should quit this 
gun fightin’ business?” 

“Dunno,” said Terry, who was not particu- 
larly interested in Dorn’s fondness for Effie. 
US 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


“Things is gettin’ pretty civilized every- 
where nowadays,” Dorn went on gloomily. 
“S’pose gun fightin’ will be played out ’fore 
long. But I dunno what else I could do. It’s 
my line. I’m good at it. Wouldn’t be much 
account at anything else.” 

The door opened, and in walked Joe Teed. 

“I got a proposition for you, Martin,” he 
announced. “The business men in this camp 
have got together and formed a committee, a 
committee of public safety. I’m a member 
myself. Things have been getting pretty bad 
up here with such men as Ford and Mora and 
the rest letting loose with their shootin’ irons 
whenever they’ve a mind to. We’re going 
after that bunch, and going after ’em good. 
We’re going to make this a respectable, civil- 
ized town, fit for decent folks to live in.” 

“Yeah?” put in Dorn, mildly interested. 
“You got a hot job on your hands all right.” 

“We know that,” said Joe. “And that’s 
why we want a good, all-round gun fighter 
116 


THE FIGHT 


like yourself to do the work. We’ve heard 
all about what you’ve been down in the Pan- 
handle country. Folks say you’ve got a rep 
as the slickest gun fighter in Texas* So I 
guess you can clean up this gulch, if anybody 
can. We got plenty of money. The mine 
owners and the storekeepers have all come 
across liberal. We’ll pay you well, and you 
can have Jack Murray, and Billy Meyers, and 
Charlie Creek, and anybody else you want to 
help you. The bad element here has either 
got to feform or get out.” 

Dorn jumped to his feet, his eyes sparkling, 
his grin wider than ever. 

“That’s some news that sure makes me feel 
good,” he exclaimed. “I’m with you, pronto ” 
“Can’t you give me a job like that, too, Mr. 
Teed?” asked Terry longingly. 

Joe looked at the boy solemnly. “Terry,” 
he said, “gunmen are goin’ out of fashion fast. 
Pretty soon even places like this won’t have 
117 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


no use for ’em. At your age you ought to be 
gettin’ into some line that’s got a future.” 

“I reckon you’re right, Joe,” Dorn assented. 
“It’s no business for the kid. Take it from 
me, son; there’s nothin’ in it. Look at me. 
Pretty soon I’ll be a has-been, with no future 
at all.” 

Terry’s heart sank. The idea that the old 
wild West was passing away forever filled 
him with gloom. But he knew there was 
sound sense in what Joe Teed had said. 

“Guess I’ll have to try making good at 
something else then,” he said sadly. “I still 
got my strike to tend to.” 

The thought of that cheered him up a little. 
If he could make good with his strike he 
would make a future for himself, and for 
Dorn, too. And, if he shouldn’t, his friend 
would have very little to look forward to be- 
fore many years. A dim idea came to him 
that destiny was at work in his affairs, and that 
he must go the way the world was going. And 
118 


THE FIGHT 


the world was leaving the gunmen behind as 
it moved ahead. 

“You go ahead and tend to that strike of 
yours, son,” said Joe. “And if it don’t pan out 
you can always count on me. I’d give you a 
job in my office that would keep you from 
worry for a while. But you better keep pretty 
close-mouthed about that strike; and don’t let 
nobody see you goin’ there if you ever make 
the trip; for there’s still some fellers in this 
camp that think there’s something in it, and 
they’ve got their eyes on you all the time.” 

“But there’s only one of ’em that knows 
about my map,” thought Terry, “unless 
Bracklow knows.” 

Bracklow in this connection had not oc- 
curred to him before. Of course Bracklow 
must know, he decided. Mora had surely told 
him. The two men shared each other’s 
secrets. 

Early that evening Terry and Red came out 
of Effie Morrow’s, and strolled down the 
119 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


gulch. It was Sunday, and as he came to the 
open spaces below the deep cut in the hills 
he saw three big tents, from which came the 
sounds of organ music and of singing. 

One was the People’s Tabernacle, another 
the Methodist Episcopal Church, in the third 
a Catholic priest had gathered his little flock. 
The tents were full of people, but they were 
only a very small part of the population. 
There were two thousand people in shacks and 
tents and dancing halls and gambling places 
that evening who were never worshipers, and 
fully two thousand more were coming up 
from the race track, three miles below. 

All the stores were open, and the miners 
and other laborers had been at work all day. 
The race-track crowd was coming up in a long 
procession, in wagons, in carry-alls and on 
horseback. Close to the People’s Tabernacle 
a lonesome gambler was whirling a wheel of 
fortune, and calling monotonously, “It’s a 


120 


THE FIGHT 

heart, and the red wins! It’s a club, and the 
black wins!” 

“He’ll be a has-been soon,” thought Terry. 
“Goin’ to be cleaned out with the rest of ’em. 
Creede’s goin’ to be a real business town, and 
I’m goin’ to make somethin’ of myself in it 
all right.” 

A shot rang out. Then another, and 
another. Terry saw a crowd scattering, and 
running for shelter. Then, directly in front 
of him, appeared Bob Ford and Joe Pastor, 
each armed with two revolvers of huge cali- 
ber, which they were firing recklessly in all 
directions. 

The town was in an uproar. Storekeepers 
were closing their shops and getting off the 
streets. Everybody was running for cover — 
everybody but Ford, Pastor and a half dozen 
rioters who were keeping them company. 

Terry ran into a doorway, and watched the 
gunmen pass. Ford and Pastor strode by so 
close to where he stood that he could have 


1 2 1 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


reached out and touched them. They were 
grinning and joking. It was the sort of lark 
they had tried several times since their arrival 
in Creede. Shooting up the town was their 
favorite diversion, and no one had ever dared 
to interfere with them. When they were out 
on such a spree they ruled the place, and 
their names spread terror. 

Suddenly from the doorway of a store 
which had not yet been closed a gun spoke, 
spoke again and again, six times in quick suc- 
cession, and two of Ford’s companions fell 
in their tracks. 

For a moment Ford and Pastor stood gap- 
ing, open-mouthed, at this interruption. It 
seemed hard for them to believe that any one 
had dared such a challenge. 

Then out from the doorway, with his curi- 
ous, sidling, bow-legged stride, came Bull 
Morgan’s killer, the killer as he was when 
trouble was astir, crouching low, guns point- 
ing, spurs jangling, ready for his favorite 


122 


THE FIGHT 


work. His guns blazed. He was firing so 
fast that there seemed to be not the slightest 
interval between the shots. 

Two more of Ford’s men fell, and Joe 
Pastor’s gun arm went limp, grazed by a 
bullet. At such long range and in the fast- 
gathering dusk it was a wonderful exhibition 
of marksmanship Dorn was giving. Creede 
had never seen anything like it. 

It took Ford a full minute to recover from 
his astonishment and bring his gun into play. 
A bullet knocked off Dorn’s hat, but he con- 
tinued to advance. He was taking desperate 
chances, for Ford still had two men left in 
fighting condition, and the slayer of Jesse 
James was known as one of the most skillful 
gunmen in the West. All three were now 
pumping lead at Dorn in the fast-gathering 
darkness. 

The Texan paused to reload. It was the 
work of only an instant, for his long, deft 
fingers handled the cartridges with uncanny 
123 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


and unerring swiftness. Then his guns spoke 
again. A moment later one of Ford’s two 
companions threw up his arms and fell face 
forward at his leader’s feet. 

Dorn crept on. And Terry held his breath, 
convinced that a few more seconds at most 
would decide the fight. 

From down the street came a hoarse roar, 
like the bellow of an angry bull, and a huge 
figure rushed from a doorway, and moved 
swiftly to join Ford and his companion. It 
was Mora. Almost at the same moment 
another man darted out of the same door. 

“Bracklow!” breathed Terry, and the boy’s 
heart sank. “Four to one!” 

' Still Dorn crept on, crouching low. The 
bullets were flying around him like hail. It 
seemed that only by a miracle could he live 
through that storm of shots. 

The Texan’s eyes were like glittering points 
of steel; his face drawn into grim, hard, de- 
124 


THE FIGHT 


termined lines; an expression of cruel menace 
in his thin, straight, tight-set lips. 

A bullet clipped a piece from his coat; 
another cut the skin of his forehead. With the 
back of one hand he swept the blood away, 
and moved on. He was in the game that he 
loved best, the game in which he was a master 
hand, the game in which he knew no fear nor 
doubt nor hesitation. 

In this game between life and death neither 
passion nor excitement moved him. He 
played it with the cool, steady nerve of a pro- 
fessional gambler at a game of cards. No 
longer was he the grinning, easy-going man 
whom Terry had known. He was Bull Mor- 
gan’s killer now, hard, sinister, terrible, 
creeping on and on into the fire of his foes, 
his guns flashing defiance of the death that 
seemed to await him. 

Again a bullet struck him. He stumbled, 
almost fell, caught himself in the nick of time. 
Still he moved on, moved on until there came 
12 q 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


a cry, and Mora fell dead at Bracklow’s side. 
A moment later Bracklow’s gun dropped to 
the ground, and his right arm fell, wounded 
and useless. 

“Two to one!” cried Terry. “He’s got a 
chance! He’s got a chance!” 

At the same instant a long shadow fell 
across the ground before the boy, and a tall, 
black-bearded man, a two-gun man, whom 
Terry had never seen before, moved forward 
with both his revolvers pointing at Dorn. The 
Texan’s back was toward the stranger, for he 
was too busily engaged to discover this new 
menace. 

Unarmed as he was, Terry could do no 
more than give a shout of warning. But in the 
roar of the guns Dorn failed to hear. The boy 
rushed forward into the hail of bullets, and 
did not stop until he was at the Texan’s side. 

“Look behind you! Quick! Quick!” he 
cried, his voice rising to a shrill, terror- 
stricken scream. 


126 


THE FIGHT 


Quick as a flash Dorn swung about. In the 
same instant his gun spoke, and a cry rang 
from him — “Dallas!” 

The black-bearded man — Rufe Dallas it 
was, sure enough, who had arrived in the 
gulch that very evening and on discovering 
Dorn, the one man he dreaded, had schemed 
to catch him unawares at this opportune time 
and shoot him from behind — fell and lay 
motionless. 

Dorn wheeled again, not an instant too soon, 
for Ford and his companion were running for- 
ward, firing as they came. So close were they 
that it seemed as if Dorn were doomed. 

There came the pounding of horses’ hoofs, 
and down from the gulch rode Billy Meyers 
and Charlie Creek, guns ready for action. 
When close to Dorn they swung from their 
horses, and instantly began firing. 

Ford’s companion fell. The last of the des- 
peradoes stood his ground for a moment, but, 
127 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


when Jack Murray suddenly appeared on the 
scene, he turned and ran for cover. 

Ford was courageous enough when the odds 
were with him, but the streak of yellow in his 
make-up showed itself when he was over- 
matched. Never before had he had any expe- 
rience with Dorn, but he knew now that the 
Texan was a fighter of the first class, and he 
had long been aware of how skillfully Meyers, 
Creek, and Murray could use their guns. 

Dorn stepped up to the lifeless body of 
Dallas. 

“Rufe Dallas!” he muttered. “So I’ve got 
him at last!” He stood staring at the white, 
ghastly, upturned face. After a time he 
turned to Terry with a grin of satisfaction. 

“Funny how it happened, isn’t it, son?” he 
said. “Must have blown into the gulch just 
when the fight was on, and thought he had 
me sure. Good thing you came along, kid, or 
he sure would have got me in the back.” 

Terry turned away from the body with a 
128 


THE FIGHT 


shiver. He was glad he was not the one who 
had killed Rufe Dallas ; glad he had not killed 
Mora, or any other man. His fighting blood 
was cooling fast. He knew Dallas’s dead face 
would have haunted him of nights if he him- 
self had killed him. 

Walking to where Mora lay, Dorn stooped 
over the motionless form. 

“Dead as a stone,” he announced. “So much 
trouble out of the way. But it’s too bad we 
didn’t get his side partner. There’s goin’ to 
be trouble from Bracklow, even if he has got 
a wounded arm.” 

“You’re wounded, too,” said Terry, looking 
anxiously at Dorn’s blood-stained face. 

The Texan laughed. 

“Got me twice,” he said. “One just grazed 
a rib. Most knocked me over. But it’s only 
cut the flesh a little.” He slipped his guns into 
his belt. “I reckon that’ll be about enough for 
to-night,” he said. “Those boys know that 
their game in this camp is about up. They’ll 
129 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


sure lie mighty quiet for a while after this.” 

“I dunno ’bout that,” declared Meyers, as 
he swung into his saddle. “Bob Ford’s not the 
man to quit in a hurry. He’s got a reputation 
to live up to, and it’ll be the ruin of him if 
he takes what we’ve just given him without 
trying to get even. He’s not done for yet — 
not by a long shot.” 

The camp was beginning to resume its 
normal course. Timid storekeepers opened 
their doors again, men and women peered out 
of windows and the procession from the race 
track formed again and continued on its way. 

A crowd collected around Dorn, staring at 
him. Here was a new hero to be admired and 
talked about, a fighting marvel whose repu- 
tation had never reached them from the far- 
away Panhandle. 

Dorn broke away from the crowd, and 
walked off, accompanied by Charlie Creek. 
Both knew the town was dangerous for them 
in the dark after what had happened, and they 
130 


THE FIGHT 


were wary and watchful, taking care to keep 
away from places that offered good opportuni- 
ties for surprise attacks. Creek knew a good 
deal more about Ford than Dorn did, and had 
a low opinion of the desperado’s character. 

“He’d shoot either of us in the back if he 
got the chance,” Creek declared. “He hasn’t 
pulled off a trick like that up here yet because 
he knew the camp wouldn’t stand for it; but 
he’d do it now all right because he’s sore and 
knows he’s about done for round here. He’d 
do it, and then get out of town in a hurry. 
You know he shot Jesse James in the back. 
Didn’t give him a chance. And it was in 
James’s own home, too, where Ford had called 
as a friend. The yellow dog would never have 
dared fight James face to face.” 

On the alert for trouble, they wandered 
about the town, after Dorn’s slight wounds 
had been patched up by Doc Calaway, Terry 
trailing along behind, the boy fearing, yet 
almost hoping, that they would encounter 

131 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


Ford and his companions again before the 
night was over. 

Now and then a glare of lamplight from 
door or window fell upon the two men; and 
at such times Dorn’s boyish, smiling face con- 
trasted oddly with the hard, sharp features 
and cold steely eyes of the old gunman from 
Dodge City, across whose nose and cheek lay 
the deep scar of a wound made many years 
before by an enemy’s bowie knife. 

In front of a store on San Luis avenue they 
came face to face with McWhorter, Joe 
Teed’s printer. 

“Say,” said McWhorter hoarsely under his 
breath, “Ford’s out huntin’ for you, Dorn. 
Says he’ll get you before the night’s over.” 

“Well, he won’t have to hunt long,” said 
Creek. “We’re easy to find. He’s waiting till 
he sees you’re alone, Dorn. He’s plumb 
scared. Won’t do a thing till everything’s in 
his favor.” 

“We might as well mosey over to the tent 
132 


THE FIGHT 


where he hangs out,” Dorn suggested. “Just 
a chance we’ll find him there.” 

As they drew near the tent they saw a little, 
round-shouldered man carrying a sawed-off 
double-barreled shotgun go into the place. 

The next moment two shots rang out close 
together, and a woman screamed and came 
running out from under the canvas. The little 
man, his shotgun still in his hands, came out 
leisurely immediately afterward. Creek rec- 
ognized him as one of Ford’s bitterest enemies. 

“I’ve squared my account with Bob Ford,” 
the man said quietly, as he stepped up to 
Creek and Dorn. “Go inside, and you’ll find 
him there.” 

They peered into the tent. Bob Ford was 
lying dead, face downward on the ground. 

“Usin’ a sawed-off shotgun is a mean, low- 
down way to kill a man,” Creek said, as he 
examined the body, torn by two charges of 
buckshot fired at such close range that the 
powder had scorched the dead man’s clothes, 
1 33 


THE SILVER PRINCE 

“but it’s no worse than what Ford did to 
James.” 

A greasy, sputtering lamp threw fitful 
shadows across the canvas walls. Outside 
thousands of insects were humming their 
evening song. From far off came the peals of 
the organ in the People’s Tabernacle. 

For a few moments Creek and Dorn stood 
silently staring at the dead desperado whose 
very name had spread terror wherever he 
went. Both looked very serious, even sad; not 
because of any sympathy for Ford, but because 
it seemed to them that his death meant that 
the end had indeed come of the old, gun- 
fighting West they both had loved. 


CHAPTER X 

THE MAN AT THE WILLOWS 

TT was on an evening a week after Bob 
A Ford’s death that Terry, when about to 
enter Dorn’s shack, caught sight of a man 
standing silently in the black shadows of the 
willows on the other side of the trail. Terry 
stopped, and watched him for a moment. The 
man did not stir. 

To Terry it seemed strange that any one 
should be waiting there so motionless at such 
an hour, and he thought of going over to get 
a closer look at him. But he remembered the 
map that was pinned inside of his shirt, and 
changed his mind. 

The camp was still talking about the “silver 
prince” and the strike Bart McGlory had 
raved about, and Bracklow at least — perhaps 
335 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


others, too, — probably knew of that cherished 
map. The man against the willows might be 
Bracklow himself, waiting to rob him of his 
secret; or it might be somebody else with the 
same purpose in mind. 

So Terry walked on into the shack, where 
he found Dorn. The Texan was sprawled in 
a chair smoking a pipe. He had been so busy 
during the past week that this was almost the 
first idle hour he had had, and he was deter- 
mined to spend the rest of the evening loafing. 

“Well, son, we’ve sure cleaned this camp 
up good,” he said to Terry with a grin. 
“Some o’ the worst ones are lyin’ up on the 
mesa six feet deep, and most o’ the rest are 
movin’ out fast. The town’s got too hot for 
’em. Pretty soon this Committee of Public 
Safety won’t have no more use for me.” 

“What you goin’ to do then?” asked Terry 
anxiously. “Goin’ back to the Panhandle 
country?” 

Dorn puffed his pipe, and stared hard at 
136 


THE MAN AT THE WILLOWS 


the floor. “I dunno what I’m goin’ to do,” he 
answered after a moment. “But I’m not goin’ 
back to Texas. Bull Morgan’s waitin’ for me 
there; but I’m tired of bein’ a killer. Times 
are changin’ fast, and I’m goin’ to quit while 
the quittin’s good.” 

“Hope you quit before somebody gets you,” 
said Terry. “There’s a few men left here yet 
that would like nothin’ better than to see you 
croaked. You’ve spoiled their game for ’em, 
and they hate you worse’n poison. Seen any- 
body hangin’ round outside here?” 

Dorn shook his head. “Why?” he 
demanded. 

“There’s somebody watchin’ over by the 
willows.” 

Dorn got up, slipped his guns into his belt, 
and went out. Behind him a glow of light 
came through the open door, so that the 
prowler across the trail must have seen him 
plainly. 

Terry, as he followed, heard a shot. Almost 
137 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


at the boy’s feet Dorn fell. Terry reached 
for him; tried to drag him inside. 

“Get away from me!” Dorn shouted; and, 
with a struggle, he raised himself to his knees. 
His hand flew to his hip, where his gun hung, 
and almost in the same instant he fired. Over 
by the willows a black form in the dark 
dropped, and lay still. 

Terry dragged Dorn inside. A little stream 
of blood seeped out from under the wounded 
man’s coat onto the floor. His face had turned 
as white as a dead man’s. But he was grinning 
as he looked up at Terry — grinning as if death 
were no more than a joke. 

“They sure got me at last, son,” he 
whispered. “But it was cornin’ to me. It’s 
what’s always cornin’ to a killer.” 

His eyes closed and he dropped off into 
unconsciousness. 

Terry stood staring at him for a moment, 
his heart beating wildly. Then, suddenly, a 
flood of tears came to his eyes and trickled 

138 


THE MAN AT THE WILLOWS 


down his face. But there was no time to grieve 
— not then. There was just a chance — the very 
slimmest of chances he thought — of saving 
Dorn’s life. He slipped a pillow under his 
friend’s head ; then ran out into the night. 

As he passed the clump of willows he saw 
the body of a man lying beside the trail, the 
face turned away from him. But he did not 
stop to look at it. Nothing he cared just then 
who it might be. Nothing counted then but 
the hope of saving Dorn’s life, and he knew 
there was not a second to lose. 

Five minutes later he arrived breathless at 
Doc Calaway’s office. There was a light in 
the window, which was a sure sign that the 
Doc was inside. He pushed open the door, 
and ran in. The Doc was on his feet in an 
instant, staring at him with a surprised look 
on his old, weather-beaten face. 

“Dorn’s shot!” gasped Terry. 

Doc Calaway grabbed his valise from the 
table, and started for the door. In spite of 
139 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


his age, he could act with surprising quick- 
ness when occasion demanded. 

“Dead?” the Doc questioned, as they 
hurried outside. 

Terry shook his head. 

“If you hurry you may save him,” he said. 

And the Doc did hurry. He went faster 
than he had ever traveled on foot before in 
many years. 

Dorn was still alive when they reached the 
shack — barely alive. So close to death, indeed, 
that Terry was sure for a moment that the 
end had come. The old doctor knelt beside 
him, cut away his clothing, and examined the 
wound. After a time he looked up at Terry 
and shook his head. 

“It’s a bad one, Terry,” he said. “I dunno 
whether he’ll pull through. Another half 
inch, and it would have gone into his heart. 
You better run quick, and get ” 

He hesitated, puzzled. There was no hos- 
pital in Creede, and not a trained nurse within 
140 


THE MAN AT THE WILLOWS 


a hundred miles. Men had to take their 
chances with fate and old Doc Calaway when 
sick or wounded. 

“You better go and get Effie Morrow,” the 
Doc decided. “She’ll do better than anybody 
I know. If Dorn’s goin’ to live he’s got to 
have some mighty careful nursin’.” 

“P’raps she won’t come,” said Terry doubt- 
fully. “She hasn’t had much likin’ for Dorn 
lately.” 

“You tell her what’s happened, and she’ll 
come all right,” Calaway answered. “I know 
a heap sight more about women than you do.” 

And it turned out that Doc Calaway was 
right. Effie did come, came so promptly, in 
spite of all the work she seemed to have on 
hand, that she was at Dorn’s shack not ten 
minutes after the Doc had sent Terry after 
her. 

“Guess she don’t hate Dorn so much, after 
all,” thought Terry, for he had noticed that 
141 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


there were tears in Effie’s eyes as she looked 
at the wounded man. 

“He can’t lie here on the floor, doctor,” 
Effie said, dismayed to discover that there was 
not even a bed in the shack. 

“No, he can’t,” Doc Calaway agreed. “He’s 
got to have a bed. And this ain’t no place for 
him, anyhow.” 

Effie considered for a moment. 

“We’ll have to get him to my cabin,” she 
said at last. “It isn’t much of a place, but it’s 
better than this, and it will be quiet there.” 

The Doc glanced up at her questioningly. 
“Quiet!” he echoed. “Quiet with all them 
boarders of yours?” 

“But there won’t be any boarders,” Effie 
answered. “I couldn’t run my business and 
be a nurse at the same time. And I guess 
trying to save a man’s life is better than trying 
to make a little money.” 

Doc Calaway laid a heavy hand on the girl’s 
shoulder. “Effie,” he said, “I always did 
142 


THE MAN AT THE WILLOWS 


swear by you. You’re one girl in a million. 
And I’d bet my last dollar you’ll save Martin 
Dorn’s life if it can be saved.” 

Over by the willows, at the spot where the 
body lay, a little group of men had gathered. 
After a time one of them came over to the 
shack, and Terry, as he opened the door for 
the caller, saw that it was Joe Teed. Some- 
how he had learned already that Dorn had 
been shot; but he knew nothing of the details, 
and was full of questions. Terry told him all 
that he knew. 

“It’s Cal. Slater lying over there,” said Joe, 
pointing to the willows. “Dead as a stone. 
One of Ford’s gang. That crowd’s been 
giving it out that they’d get Martin before 
they quit, and all of us have been afraid some- 
thin’ like this would happen. Dorn’s got ’em 
on the run, but they’ve managed to satisfy 
their spite. Some folks say Dorn’s nothin’ but 
a killer. But he fights fair. He’s no sneak in 
the grass, like Cal. Slater was, and you can 
143 


THE SILVER PRINCE 

take it from me, son, this gulch is proud of 
him.” 

For a week Dorn’s life hung by a thread, 
as the saying goes. Whenever one of the gun- 
man’s friends called at Effie Morrow’s cabin 
to inquire after him, the girl always met the 
caller with a shake of the head and a finger 
at her lips. “There’s just a chance — just a 
bare chance,” would be her answer. 

Never had Doc Calaway worked so hard 
to save a patient’s life. He was fond of Dorn* 
he was fond of Effie; and he could not have 
shown more affection for his own son, if he 
'had had one, than he did for Terry McGlory. 

He knew what Dorn’s life meant to Terry; 
and he knew, too — this wily, experienced old- 
timer — though perhaps nobody else did, what 
it meant to Effie. As he had said himself, he 
knew a “heap sight” more about women than 
Terry did, and a heap sight more than most 
men, for he had had many and various oppor- 
144 


THE MAN AT THE WILLOWS 


tunities of studying the fair sex, and had 
profited thereby, though too late to save him- 
self from two unfortunate marriages. He had 
not watched Effie sitting by the wounded gun 
fighter’s bedside hour after hour without 
making up his mind which way the wind was 
blowing. 

Never had the Doc regretted the deficien- 
cies in his medical knowledge as he did then. 
He had set out as a horse doctor at the begin- 
ning of his career, and had gradually picked 
up at random what he knew about doctoring 
human beings. 

“He needs a real good doctor,” he told him- 
self again and again. “That’s more’n I am, 
though I wouldn’t want this camp to think it.” 

One day he spoke his views to Effie and 
Terry on this subject. 

“I may be all right for a mining camp 
doctor,” he said, “but what Martin ought to 
have is a high-class specialist. There ain’t one 
of that kind nearer than Denver; and it would 
145 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


cost a mint o’ money to hire him to come up 
here, more money than the three of us has 
got together. There’s times when money talks 
a whole lot, Terry, and this is one of ’em. I 
may pull Martin through all right. I’m tryin’ 
my darnedest. But I can’t help wishin’ I had 
one o’ them high-grade Denver docs on the 
job.” 


CHAPTER XI 

THE SPECK ON THE TRAIL 

li /T ORE than once Doc Calaway had been 
on the point of going to some of the 
prosperous business men of the Committee of 
Public Safety to tell them of the need for a 
specialist. Indeed once he had been at the 
very door of Nick Creede’s cabin with that 
purpose in mind, and had turned away, doubt- 
ing whether the mine owner would take the 
suggestion in the proper spirit. 

The Doc was getting old, and it was hard 
for him to come to quick decisions in im- 
portant matters. These business men them- 
selves, knowing nothing about things and busy 
with their own affairs, failed to realize the 
patient’s need of more skillful treatment. And 
147 


THE SILVER PRINCE 

they had much more faith in Calaway than 
the old doctor had in himself. 

Somehow the thought of raising the neces- 
sary money in such a way never entered 
Terry’s head. He had brooded over what Doc 
Calaway had said, and had been struck by an 
inspiration of his own. 

“Money!” he mused. “Money! Why, I 
know where there’s money — bushels of it. 
Ain’t I the silver prince, with a million 
waitin’ for me up there in the mountains?” 

But there was one serious difficulty in the 
way of a visit to Bart McGlory’s strike. If 
he should pack his one remaining burro with 
blankets, provisions and his father’s prospect- 
ing tools, and march off with it into the hills 
the news would be flying about the camp in 
no time. 

“I’ll have to wait till after dark,” he 
decided. “And even then it’ll be risky; but it 
can’t be helped. I got to run chances.” 

If it had not been for this danger, he would 
148 


THE SPECK ON THE TRAIL 


have been away in the mountains with the 
burro long ago. He had been waiting until 
there should not be so much talk in the gulch 
about the “silver prince” and the strike. 

He had an idea that Bracklow, and perhaps 
others, were watching him closely. There 
might be spies lurking about waiting to report 
the first indication that he was preparing to 
make the journey. He realized that he would 
have to move very cautiously. 

Alone in Dorn’s shack, he pulled out his 
father’s map, and studied it carefully. It 
seemed plain enough. He was sure he could 
find the spot. And he did not doubt that his 
father had struck riches. Almost to a certainty 
there would be a good deal of “float” — pure 
silver — lying on top of such a strike; and, if 
not, he would load his burro with the richest 
ore he could find, with enough of it to hire the 
highest-priced doctor in Denver. 

But he would have to hurry. All this would 
take time — several days. Yet Doc Calaway 
149 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


had said Dorn might hover between life and 
death for weeks, and it was surely worth the 
chance. He counted his money. He figured 
that he would have just about enough to buy 
what he needed. 

Going to the big general store at the head 
of the gulch, he bought a supply of bacon, 
flour, beans and a few other necessaries. He 
did not need to buy blankets or tools, for he 
had his father’s. 

He was the only customer in the place for 
the moment, and he was glad of that. He 
feared to have it noised about that he was 
laying in those supplies. And the storekeeper 
might not suspect that he was buying the pro- 
visions for a journey into the mountains. 

He waited until ten o’clock that night 
before going for his burro. Then he packed 
the animal, and, with Red at his heels, started 
away. Unfortunately Creede was as wide 
awake at night as in the daytime, but it was 
easy to keep away from the lights. There was 
150 


THE SPECK ON THE TRAIL 


no moon; that helped a little, for the trail 
down the gulch was as black as pitch, so black 
that he had to pick his way slowly and 
cautiously. 

Then he came to where the gulch broadened 
out into the valley. He would have to avoid 
the main road for a time, for he was sure to 
meet men there. And yet in the dark it was 
almost impossible to pick his way around it. 

Several times he stumbled into holes and 
went sprawling over logs and other obstacles, 
and once he brought up with a thud against 
the wall of a cabin. A man came out from 
the door and stared at him. The light from 
inside shone on the burro, and the man 
bestowed a curious attention upon the pros- 
pecting tools sticking out from the pack. 

“Funny hour to be goin’ off prospectin,” 
the man observed. “Or are you cornin’ back?” 

“I’m cornin’ back,” Terry answered; and 
the man seemed satisfied and returned to the 
cabin. 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


He had to go back to the road after worm- 
ing his way through the most thickly pop- 
ulated spot in the valley, and five minutes 
after he came to it another man appeared, 
close in front of him. This man he knew. He 
was Rogers, a miner, who had sometimes 
taken his meals at Effie Morrow’s. Rogers 
grunted a surly greeting, looked at Terry and 
his pack sharply, and passed on toward the 
gulch. Terry stood looking after him as long 
as he could distinguish his black figure from 
the dark. 

“He’ll sure go blabbin’ round about me,” 
he assured himself. “Unless he takes a notion 
to trail along after me himself. And I guess 
I got too much start on him. He’d never 
find me.” 

He hurried on, prodding his burro into a 
trot and running beside it, for he felt nervous 
and anxious so close to the town. Presently he 
came to a narrow pass, running north, through 
152 


THE SPECK ON THE TRAIL 


the hills. He turned off at a sharp angle from 
the road, and entered it. 

There was no road through the pass, only 
a rough cattle trail too faint to be dis- 
tinguished in the dark. But Terry had come 
to the gulch by that way with his father, and 
he had a fairly clear recollection of it. 

The trail was not difficult to follow, and 
he felt relieved to be well away from the road 
at last. He was in a wild, desolate country 
now, with hardly a possibility of meeting any 
human being. 

Sometimes the shrill barking of a coyote 
broke the silence; and once, from far off, the 
harsh scream of a mountain lion came to his 
ears, a sound that brought Red cowering to his 
master’s heels, his tail between his legs. Red 
was not afraid of coyotes, nor even of the big 
gray wolves that sulked through those hills, 
but he knew there were some beasts roaming 
there that no dog could encounter with any 
chance of getting away alive. 

153 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


Once he had seen a mountain lion strike a 
dog crony of his gently with its paw and send 
it flying twenty feet into the air. Red had 
made good his retreat, without pausing to 
watch further developments ; but he had never 
seen his crony again. That dog was a good 
deal larger than he himself, so he understood 
the wisdom of keeping away from lion’s trails. 

They climbed higher and higher. By and 
by they came out of the pass into a high 
plateau, walled by mountain ranges. They 
worked their way up the side of a high ridge, 
a morain formed thousands of years before by 
the debris of a glacier, and traveled along its 
top. 

The moon came out. Far vistas spread out 
before them, range after range of blue moun- 
tains, with great valleys lying between, and 
sometimes, a hundred miles away, a glistening, 
snow-tipped peak. A wind sprang up, and 
Terry felt in it the chill of high mountain 
snows. 


THE SPECK ON THE TRAIL 


Into this silent country no human being 
came for weeks, perhaps months, at a time. 
He was safe, unless — He looked back over 
the way he had come, wondering whether it 
would have been possible for anybody to 
follow him through the dark pass before the 
moon came out. 

Several times he had had a queer, indescrib- 
able feeling that some one was behind him, 
and often he stopped to listen, but there had 
never been a sound except the calls of beasts 
or Red’s deep, echoing barks. 

If there had been any one after him, Red’s 
voice might have supplied the pursuer with 
an occasional clue to the right direction. 
Terry had not thought of that possibility until 
now, and it worried him a little. 

As he stood looking back there came from 
far off on the trail that he had followed the 
sound of a falling stone. He gave a start, and 
strained his eyes over the dim, moonlit 
morain. 




THE SILVER PRINCE 


“Sho!” he muttered at last. “ There can’t 
be anybody there. I been doing so much 
worrying that it’s got on my nerves, and I’m 
imaginin’ things.” 

At the end of the morain he heard the 
sound of water tumbling over rocks, and he 
knew that he had arrived at one of his old 
camping places. A patch of Engelmann 
spruce stood before him, the tips of the tall, 
straight trees silvered by the moonlight. In 
their shadow a little brook was making its 
presence known with loud splashes and low 
chuckles. It sounded to Terry as if it were 
laughing and chortling to itself over some 
endless joke that was beyond human under- 
standing. 

He unfastened the pack from the burro, 
unrolled the blankets, and, slipping in 
between them, was ready for a short rest. It 
would have to be very short, for the night was 
far more than half over, and he meant to be 
up and away at sunrise. A night hawk soared 
156 


THE SPECK ON THE TRAIL 


overhead. A turtle dove, startled by Red out 
of its sleep, went fluttering off into the brush. 
Then dead silence came, and Terry fell asleep. 

By the time the first gray glimmering of 
day arrived he was awake again. Scraping 
together some brushwood, he lit a fire, got out 
his frying pan, and cooked himself a breakfast 
of bacon, beans, and doughcakes. What was 
left, after he had eaten, he offered to Red, but 
the dog had evidently rooted some animal 
from its lair for his meal, and was not hungry 
for such fare. 

After packing the burro, he journeyed on, 
heading always to the north. The danger of 
being followed did not worry him now. His 
thoughts were only of old Bart’s strike, which, 
unless it had never existed except in his 
father’s imagination, must lie not more than a 
hard day’s journey ahead. 

All that day he marched on steadily, walk- 
ing fast in the roughest and steepest places. 
In that high altitude the air was cool and 
157 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


bracing, and, in spite of the fact that his 
night’s sleep had been cut short, he felt no 
signs of fatigue. 

When night came again he found himself 
not far from the spot where old Bart had 
brought him the news of the strike. After he 
had made camp his thoughts went back to 
that time when his father, his eyes sparkling, 
his hands trembling with excitement, had 
announced that the dream of a lifetime had at 
last come true. 

The boy felt sad and lonely. He thought 
of his father’s desolate grave, far away to the 
south on the barren mesa, and of Martin 
Dorn, lying so close to death. If Dorn should 
die, he felt that he himself would indeed be 
alone in the world. There would be no one 
left, now that his father was dead, to take the 
gunman’s place in the boy’s life. And perhaps 
Dorn already had passed out of this life. The 
wind sighed dismally. To Terry it seemed to 
whisper of death. 


158 


THE SPECK ON THE TRAIL 


When the next morning dawned Terry 
sprang out of his blankets with the feeling that 
a crisis in his life was at hand. The decisive 
day had arrived. Surely before the morning 
was over he would know whether he was 
indeed a silver prince or a pauper. For the 
first time he began to doubt his father’s story. 

Now that he was so near to testing it, it 
seemed too strange to be true. He felt himself 
trembling, as old Bart had done that night 
when he showed his samples in the light of 
the fire. As Terry recollected those glistening 
bits of “float” his confidence came back to 
him. They were surely proof that his father 
had struck something, anyway, though per- 
haps not such riches as the old man had raved 
about. 

After breakfast, he took out his map, and 
studied it again. Though he remembered 
every detail of it, he wanted to make sure. 
Then he packed the burro, and went on in the 
direction the diagram indicated. 

159 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


He passed through a wooded valley; then 
climbed the steep slope of a hill, the sure- 
footed burro going on ahead. When he came 
to the top a wide stretch of country lay around 
him, and for many miles he could trace the 
course he had followed. 

The sun was shining with dazzling bright- 
ness. There were neither clouds nor mist, and 
the ragged horizon lines, here and there 
tipped with snow on distant peaks, showed 
sharply against the clear sky. 

Suddenly the boy’s eyes narrowed. Some- 
thing, a mere speck, far to the south had 
caught his attention. The speck was moving. 
Terry stood watching it, not moving a muscle, 
scarcely breathing. The speck was drawing 
nearer. 

“May be only a stray cow,” Terry told 
himself. 

But he found it hard to reassure himself 
with this idea. It was not the sort of country 
where one might expect to find stray cows, 
160 


THE SPECK ON THE TRAIL 


and the speck was moving forward steadily, 
with never a pause or turn. A cow’s move- 
ments would have been more uncertain. 

Presently there was no longer doubt of what 
the speck was. It was a horse and rider. Terry 
led the burro over the crest of the hill where 
it would be out of sight. Returning to the top, 
he crouched low, watching. 

Horse and rider drew nearer and nearer in 
the valley below, and Terry, as he studied 
them, felt his heart beginning to beat against 
his ribs. The horse was a pinto — Mora’s 
pinto. 

But Mora was dead. The rider was cer- 
tainly not Mora, unless it was his ghost. And 
this man had a beard, a beard like Brack- 
low’s. He was Bracklow. He was near 
enough now to leave no doubt of that. 


CHAPTER XII 


ON THE PRECIPICE 

B RACKLOW’S arm was in a sling. He 
had not recovered from the wound Dorn 
had given him. It was his gun arm, which 
made him somewhat less dangerous. Terry 
had his rifle with him, and Bracklow would 
be a poor marksman with his left hand in case 
murder was a part of his plan. 

Across the narrow valley, which lay below 
the hill on the side away from Bracklow, rose 
a huge precipice, the face of a wide mountain 
with jagged summits. “Old Razorback” Bart 
McGlory had called this mountain, and the 
old prospector had often stood staring at its 
gray, flat face wondering whether it would be 
possible for any human being to climb such 
a dizzy perpendicular height. Indeed, he had 
162 


ON THE PRECIPICE 


speculated so often over the possibility of it 
that one day Terry had set out to prove that 
he himself could climb it, even if nobody else 
could. 

And the boy had succeeded. Hanging on 
by his toes and fingers three hundred feet 
above the valley, he had studied the face of 
the rock, noting every narrow ledge and tiny 
cleft, every nob or fissure that might offer a 
hold for toes or finger tips, until he had at 
last groped his way to the top. And he could 
do it again. He was sure of it, for he knew the 
way now. 

“That’ll be the way to shake Bracklow off 
my trail,” he reasoned. “He can’t follow me 
up Old Razorback — not with one hand in a 
sling.” 

And to get around Old Razorback would 
take Bracklow half a day. He would have to 
make a detour of several miles of the roughest 
kind of climbing, and at times, in the bottoms, 
he would be caught in almost impenetrable 
163 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


undergrowth. By the time he had rounded 
the mountain he would have lost all track of 
his quarry. 

Terry hid the burro out of sight in a thick 
growth of bushes on the hillside, and, 
strapping his prospecting tools on his back, 
crossed the valley. When at last he came to 
the bottom of Old Razorback’s face, he looked 
back, and saw Bracklow, still in the saddle, 
coming over the top of the hill. 

Terry started up the wall, leaving Red 
howling dismally below. The wall had a 
slight outward tilt at its base, and it was not 
so difficult at first, except for loose slag, which 
threatened now and then to send him sprawl- 
ing to the bottom. But after a hundred feet 
the cliff rose absolutely perpendicular. 

When he had reached this point he again 
looked back across the valley. He had taken 
it for granted that Bracklow would not 
attempt to follow, but, to his surprise, the man 
had left his horse and was heading straight 
164 


ON THE PRECIPICE 


for the mountain. Terry hung against the 
rock waiting. He did not want to look down 
after getting to the worst part of the climb, 
and he was anxious to discover what Bracklow 
meant to do. 

The man came to the base of the cliff, and 
stood looking up. 

“You goin’ up there?” he called. 

Without giving an answer, Terry resumed 
his climb. He was sure Bracklow did not 
intend to follow. 

“You’ll break your fool neck,” Bracklow 
shouted. “You better came back and talk. 
You and me can come to terms about that 
strike o’ yours if there’s anything in it. We 
can split it. If you won’t, I got you dead to 
rights, and I’ll take the whole thing. Reckon 
I know ’bout where it is, anyhow.” 

Terry remained silent. He was too busy 
climbing to talk. He knew he must keep his 
eyes and his mind riveted on that menacing 
face of Old Razorback every instant. If he 
165 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


didn’t — well, it would be a quick death, the 
fall into the valley, which was lying farther 
and farther below. 

Bracklow stood looking up anxiously. He 
hardly thought the boy would succeed in 
getting to the top. He made up his mind that 
he would soon be worming his way down, so 
he waited for that time to come. 

But Terry went up and up. He was two 
hundred feet now above the valley. He was 
getting a little shaky. The thought of Brack- 
low, standing below watching him, was not 
good for the climber’s nerves. 

He wondered if Bracklow would laugh if 
he would slip and fall hurtling through space 
to the bottom. Then it came to him like a 
flash that, if such a thing should happen, the 
man would surely search his clothes and find 
the map. 

Terry did not need the map. He could 
remember now every detail of it Why hadn’t 
he destroyed it before beginning the climb, he 
166 


ON THE PRECIPICE 

asked himself. He knew there was a chance 
of falling — a good chance now that Bracklow 
was on his nerves. And one could never be 
certain of safety on the face of Old Razor- 
back. 

Flattening himself against the wall, he took 
the risk of holding on with one hand, while 
he slipped the other inside his coat. After a 
little awkward groping, he found the piece 
of paper, and pulled it out Then, with one 
hand and his teeth, he tore it into fine bits, 
and let them float off into the yawning depths. 

Some of them fluttered at last to Bracklow’s 
feet. The man stood staring down at them, 
wondering. Suddenly an inspiration came to 
him. He realized that these tiny white scraps 
were all that remained of the map Mora had 
told him about and which he would have been 
willing to risk his very life to get. He picked 
some of them up, trying to piece them 
together; but it was a hopeless task. Finally 
167 


THE SILVER PRINCE 

he tossed them to the wind with a grunt of 
disgust. 

Again he turned his gaze up the stone face 
of the mountain. Clinging like a fly to the flat 
wall, Terry was still moving steadily upward. 
If he should continue climbing with the same 
success, he would be at the top in a few more 
minutes. 

“Come down here!” roared Bracklow, 
alarmed by the thought that the boy was about 
to elude him. 

At the dizzy height he had reached, Terry 
heard only a faint echo of the shout. But he 
heard distinctly the next moment the report 
of a pistol shot. Bracklow growing desperate, 
had fired at him. 

“There’s no danger,” Terry assured himself. 
He was not afraid of the pistol, for he was 
sure there was not a ghost of a chance that 
Bracklow, firing with his unaccustomed left 
hand, would hit him at that long range. 

But, in his dangerous position, where he 
1 68 


ON THE PRECIPICE 


was straining every muscle to keep his uncer- 
tain hold on the rock, the slightest distraction 
was enough to unsteady his nerves. He was 
getting shaky again, and was beginning to be 
afraid. 

Presently an uncontrollable impulse 
prompted him to a reckless act which he had 
always warned himself against when climbing 
dangerous heights. He looked down. To his 
astonishment he saw Bracklow dragging him- 
self up the precipice. He saw, too, the great, 
yawning gulf that lay below, and the sight of 
it turned him dizzy and sick. His muscles 
turned limp. He felt himself losing his hold. 

At that moment he was at the most difficult 
point in the whole climb. The place where 
he now hung, when he had studied it from 
a few feet below, had looked almost hopeless. 
But, creeping slowly upward, he had found 
here and there just enough of a point, or ledge 
or fissure to offer a precarious hold for toes 
or finger tips. 


169 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


And it was just such a hold that he had now 
— just enough, and no more. The barely per- 
ceptible projecting rim of rock on which 
rested the tips of his shoes was scarcely a 
quarter of an inch wide, while, just above his 
head, a rough bulge of the wall gave his hands 
a grip that was far from secure. 

He gave a gasp of fear as he felt his 
strength suddenly deserting him. For an 
instant he was convinced that he was about 
to fall, and he gave up hope. 

He closed his eyes. Every nerve began to 
tingle. A dreadful, empty sensation came at 
the pit of his stomach. He imagined himself 
tottering backward, then swinging over and 
over in midair while the bottom of the valley 
rushed up to meet him. It was all he could 
do to restrain an impulse to let go, such an 
impulse as often comes to a dizzy man to 
jump while looking down from a great 
height. 

Then, as he felt his grip relax, sheer des- 
170 


ON THE PRECIPICE 


peration suddenly stiffened his muscles. In a 
panic his fingers fastened on the wall in such 
a frenzied clutch that sharp edges of rock cut 
through the skin. His breath came in long 
gasps. Perspiration rolled down his face. 
And somehow in that frantic moment he 
managed to drag himself to a point where it 
was possible to get a firmer hold. 

There he paused a moment to catch his 
breath. He muttered a prayer of gratitude, 
for it seemed to him that only a divine miracle 
had saved him. Gradually his fear passed 
away, his mind grew clearer, his nerves 
steadier. He was near the top now, and, after 
climbing cautiously for a few minutes, he 
swung himself up over the brink to safety. 

Looking down he saw Bracklow clinging 
midway between top and bottom on the wall, 
and he wondered at the man’s reckless daring. 
Bracklow was a mountain man and had 
climbed places equally dangerous many a 
time, but never before with one arm disabled. 


THE SILVER PRINCE 

Terry knew that he himself, if disabled as 
Bracklow was, would never have reached the 
top. 

If Bracklow could do it he was a wonder. 
But Bracklow reasoned differently. He had 
by this time convinced himself that if a boy 
could climb the precipice it must be fairly 
accessible, and, desperate with the fear of 
losing his chance of a fortune, he was ready 
to take whatever risks there might be. If he 
had known Terry had come so close to falling 
he might have turned back, but he had not 
seen the boy in the critical moment when the 
space between life and death was only a hair’s 
breadth. 

He kept on, climbing more slowly than 
Terry had done, but with surprising steadiness 
considering one hand was helpless. His long 
experience as a mountaineer served him well. 
He knew exactly how to take the best advan- 
tage of every opportunity the rock afforded, 
172 


ON THE PRECIPICE 


and he came up and up, pausing now and then 
to figure on his best course. 

At last he reached the very point that had 
almost meant death to Terry. There was no 
easier way around it. He would have to pull 
himself, over it or give up the attempt. 

For a moment he clung staring up with a 
scowling face at the menacing spot. Then, 
with a curse, he continued his way upward. 

“He’ll never make it,” Terry thought. 
“Not with one hand. It can’t be done.” The 
boy held his breath as he peered over the brink 
watching. 

And then he saw Bracklow’s one good hand 
slip from the rock. The man seemed to realize 
his danger, for he gave one wild stare upward 
with rolling eyes. He flattened himself 
against the wall, his arm outstretched groping 
frantically for a hold. Then, swaying for an 
instant, he tottered backward, and, with a 
hoarse cry, fell out into space. 


CHAPTER XIII 

THE CRUCIAL HOUR 


T HE sight of Bracklow falling to his 
death completely unnerved Terry. He 
drew back from the brink of the precipice 
with a shudder, and lay with his hands over 
his eyes, trying to take his mind from the 
dreadful thing he had seen. But the man’s 
rolling eyes, and terror-stricken face were 
always before him. 

After a time he peered over the edge. Hun* 
dreds of feet below, a black spot showed 
against the brown grass of the valley. It was 
Bracklow’s body. That night wolves would 
come skulking stealthily out of the hills, and 
find it. And before long there would be only 
a pile of bones, bleached by rain and sun. 

At last he recalled the business that had 
174 


THE CRUCIAL HOUR 


brought him trailing with his burro into those 
lonely mountains. He stood gazing down into 
the country that lay below him; then fell to 
studying the rough shoulders of Old Razor- 
back. Picking out what seemed to him to be 
the easiest course, he worked his way down 
the mountain around the side of the cliff until 
he came to a point near the head of the valley 
fully two miles from where he had begun his 
climb. 

He called and whistled, hoping Red might 
be within hearing, but there was no answer. 
The dog was probably waiting for him on the 
hillside where he had fastened the burro. He 
was disappointed, for he felt terribly lonely. 
Red would have cheered him up. 

He believed that by cutting across some low 
hills he would find a shorter way to the spot 
the map had indicated as the location of the 
silver lode, and he was about to go in that 
direction when the necessity of having his 
burro occurred to him. 

175 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


He would have to eat before long, and his 
provisions were in the burro’s pack. He 
would also need the animal to carry any ore 
or “float” he might find. So he turned down 
the valley, walking briskly, and before long 
Red came rushing down from the hillside to 
meet him. 

Terry climbed up to the spot where he had 
left the burro, unfastened the animal, and 
started off in the direction of the ledge his 
father had diagramed in the map. After a 
mile or more of rough traveling, he came 
to it. There he paused, groping into his 
memory. 

“From there turn south,” his father had 
said, “following the ledge for three hundred 
feet or so.” Then, he remembered, he was to 
find three pine trees growing out of the rocks. 

Making his way slowly through the thick 
undergrowth at the base of the ledge, and 
dragging his burro after him, he was cheered 
176 


THE CRUCIAL HOUR 


by the discovery of the trees, growing just as 
old Bart had said. 

“Climb the ledge when you get to them.” 
So his father had told him. Terry remem- 
bered every word, and the map he had 
destroyed was firmly placed in his memory. 
“At the top turn south again till you come to 
where the ledge breaks in two. Then down 
fifty feet, and at the bottom is an old tree, 
growing between two bowlders.” 

He followed the directions carefully, 
though he had hard work getting the balky 
burro up the ledge. When he found the old 
tree growing between two huge rocks his last 
doubts disappeared. He was sure now that he 
was close to his father’s strike, and a thrill of 
expectation ran through him. 

“North thirty paces from that you’ll come 
to the edge of my strike.” Thirty paces! 
Another moment would bring him to his 

fortune — unless But the possibility that 

old Bart’s strike was no more than the delusion 


177 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


of a fevered brain worried Terry for scarcely 
an instant. 

He pushed on, counting his steps. Thirty 
paces! “Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty,” 
Terry counted; then stopped, and looked 
about him. 

His heart sank. There was not a sign of 
“float” or ore, nothing but undisturbed earth, 
strewn with pine needles, with not even a 
solitary rock cropping out from them. He 
struck his pick into the earth, and it sank deep. 
It was not in such a spot that ore was found. 

“He dreamed it!” groaned Terry. “It’s 
nothin’ but a dream.” 

He sat down on the ground and buried his 
face in his hands, more miserable than he had 
ever been in his life. Red came up and laid 
his head on his master’s knee, looking sadly 
up into his face, but wagging his tail des- 
perately in an effort to cheer him. 

“Nothin’ but a dream of pop’s, Red,” said 
i 7 8 


THE CRUCIAL HOUR 


Terry. “I guess we better be goin’ back to the 
gulch. There’s no hope for us.” 

Terry got to his feet, and Red ran off. 
Presently he heard the dog barking furiously. 

“Wonder what’s got into him now,” he 
muttered, and he followed in the direction of 
the sound. Soon he caught sight of Red stand- 
ing on a shelf of rock before some dark object 
that looked like an old rag. 

“What is it, Red?” called Terry. Red 
picked the thing up, and shook it. Terry 
walked over to him, and the dog dropped his 
prize at his master’s feet. It was Bart Me- 
Glory’s hat. 

Terry remembered that his father had 
returned to camp bareheaded on the night 
when he had announced his strike. And then, 
quick as a flash, the old man’s words came 
back to him. “So excited I left my hat down 
on the lode.” 

On the lode! For a moment Terry’s heart 
stood still. He had left his hat on the lode! 
179 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


And yet here it lay, fully sixty paces from 
where the lode should be; sixty paces south 
of the point the map had indicated. Terry 
looked around him. 

This spot was thirty paces south of the old 
tree that stood between the bowlders. But 
thirty paces north of the tree was the direction 
he had fixed in his memory. Perhaps his 
memory had deceived him; or perhaps his 
father had made a mistake in the direction. It 
would have been an easy mistake to make, 
merely the change of one word. 

He began to examine the place. It was solid 
rock, a more likely spot than the one he had 
left. He moved on a few feet. Suddenly he 
sprang forward with a shout. A scrap of silver 
“float” was glistening in the sun. 

Terry picked the thing up. It was a solid 
sheet of the pure metal, dazzlingly white and 
beautiful. He moved on a few feet. More 
bits of “float” rewarded his search. The place 
was strewn with it. He drove his pick into 
180 


THE CRUCIAL HOUR 

the rock, and the broken stones glistened with 
silver veins. 

It was no dream. Old Bart McGlory had 
found riches indeed. 

Terry stood bewildered. “Am I awake?” 
he asked himself. “Is this true?” He pinched 
himself, driving his nails deep into the skin. 

“Yeah,” he said at last. “I’m awake all 
right.” 

He could feel the blood rushing through 
his veins, could feel his heart beating. His 
whole body was thrilling. He knew now how 
Nick Creede must have felt when he blun- 
dered upon the Holy Moses and discovered 
himself raised in a moment from long years 
of grinding poverty to wealth. 

Half dazed as he stared down upon his 
discovery, Terry’s thoughts wandered in some 
curious way to Monte Cristo. He recalled 
how Edmond Dantes, after gloating over the 
buried treasure on the island, had cried out, 
“The world is mine!” 

181 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


Those same words came to Terry’s lips. He 
felt like crying them out to the hills. He was 
like Dantes, looking into a future in which 
wealth would overcome every obstacle and 
smooth every path. Like Dantes, too, it was 
a dead man’s secret he had found, only Bart 
McGlory had taken the place of the Abbe 
Faria. 

But his thoughts did not turn like those of 
Dantes to revenge. They turned to Martin 
Dorn, lying so close to death — perhaps 
already dead. 

Suddenly the silver seemed like an insig- 
nificant, useless thing, except for the help it 
might be in saving the gunman’s life. He gave 
it a look almost of disgust. 

“Sho I” he muttered. “Money ain’t so much, 
after all. It can’t make anybody happy. It 
hasn’t made Nick Creede happy. I’d rather 
have a good friend like Martin Dorn than a 
million any time.” 


CHAPTER XIV 


A BARE CHANCE 

A BOY, a burro, and a dog were making 
their way slowly through the hills. 
Night had closed in, and the trail was dim and 
hard to follow. The boy stumbled along over 
the rough, rock-strewn ground, limping a lit- 
tle and dragging his feet as if they were leaden 
weights. Now and then he had to stop and 
urge the burro on. 

Even the dog was tired, and hung listlessly 
at its master’s heels. For the three had come 
many miles since the break of day. On the 
burro’s back was a heavy load, a load that 
jingled and rattled with every step the animal 
took. 

The pack had contained little else but a 
supply of food a few days earlier, but now the 

183 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


food was gone, every scrap of it, and in its 
place was a huge mass of silver ore, ore so 
rich with the precious metal that it would 
have filled Nick Creede with envy; and 
splinters of silver “float.” 

Presently, as they came down a steep pass 
into a far-spreading valley, a cluster of lights 
caught the boy’s attention. They were the 
lights of Creede. 

Boy, burro, and dog came out into the town 
a few minutes later, and passed on to the 
winding trail through the gulch. A man came 
out from a cabin, and stood watching them, 
his face full of curiosity. He stepped forward 
to the burro and laid his hand on the pack, 
fingering it eagerly. 

“Ore?” he inquired. 

The boy nodded. The man studied him 
closely. “Say!” he exclaimed. “Ain’t you 
Bart McGlory’s kid?” 

“Yes,” said Terry. 

The man stared at him, his mouth hanging 
184 


A BARE CHANCE 


open. “Thunder !” he cried. “McGlory’s kid, 
with a packful of ore! So there was something 
in the old man’s ravings after all.” 

Terry passed on, leaving the man standing 
in the road gaping after him. The boy knew 
that the camp would be ringing with the news 
of his discovery before morning. 

He moved on into the dark gulch. The 
steep trail seemed to be almost too much for 
his strength, and now and then he stopped to 
rest. He was hungry too, for he had had 
nothing to eat since morning. He felt dizzy 
and faint, and the black trees and the frown- 
ing stone walls of the canon were a dim blur 
before his sleepy eyes. 

Before long a shaft of yellow light from a 
cabin window lay across the trail ahead of 
him. He knew it was the light of Effie Mor- 
row’s lamp, and he quickened his pace a little 
until he came within sight of her door. 

Red ran on ahead, and scratched and 
barked at the door until it was thrown open, 
185 


THE SILVER PRINCE 

and Effie herself appeared, peering out into 
the dark. 

“Terry!” she cried. 

“Yes, I’m back,” said the boy listlessly. 

“Back! From where?” cried the girl. 

Terry stared into her face, his eyes full of 
anxiety. “Is — is Martin all right?” he asked 
as if he feared the answer. 

“Terry,” she demanded reproachfully, 
“how could you go away as you did, without 
saying a word. He asked after you a dozen 
times. I think he might have got better if he 
hadn’t worried so about you.” 

“He’s — he’s still alive?” he stammered, 
frightened by the serious expression in Effie’s 
face. 

“Yes, he’s still alive,” she answered. “But 
that’s about all. He may not live the week 
out.” 

She gave a little, sobbing gasp, and her eyes 
filled with tears. “Oh, Terry,” she sobbed, “I 
never knew how much I thought of Martin 


A BARE CHANCE 


till now. We can’t let him die! We T ve got to 
save him somehow.” 

Terry nodded solemnly. “Yes, we’ve got to 
save him somehow,” he said. “And I’m goin’ 
to send for that Denver doctor. I’ll have 
money enough now to hire the best doctor in 
the world. That pack’s full of float and ore, 
Eflie — silver ore — chock full of it.” 

She turned a startled glance to the heavy 
load on the burro. “You — you don’t mean to 
say you’ve found the strike!” she exclaimed 
increduously. 

“Yes, I’ve found it,” he answered. 

“Terry! It sounds like a dream!” 

“It sounded like a dream till I found it,” 
he said. “But there’s no dream about it any 
longer. I’m goin’ to send for that Denver 
doctor — pronto ” 

“You’re too late,” said Effie. 

He looked up at her startled. “Too late?” 

“Yes. That Denver doctor’s here now. You 
didn’t think I’d let Martin go without the best 
187 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


doctor to be had, did you, after what Doc 
Calaway told us?” 

Terry was bewildered. “I can’t see how you 
got him,” he said. 

“Sho!” exclaimed Effie. “Why, that was 
simple enough to anybody. Poor old Doc 
Calaway’s getting so far along in life that his 
brain’s a little foggy, or he’d have sent to 
Denver right away, the very first thing. He 
ought not to have stopped to worry about the 
bill. There are fifty men in this camp who’d 
have paid it gladly. I went to just one, Nick 
Creede. He told me to go as far as I liked up 
to fifty thousand dollars to save Martin Dorn’s 
life, and to get a special train if necessary. 
And I did get a special train, for I knew every 
minute counted. I got the biggest surgeon in 
the West; and he’s brought two trained nurses 
with him, too.” 

Terry felt tears brimming to his eyes and a 
lump rising in his throat. “You’re a wonder, 

1 88 


A BARE CHANCE 


Effie!” he exclaimed. “Why didn’t I think of 
that? I ought to have knowed there was 
plenty of white men with big hearts in this 
camp, even if there have been so many with 
yellow streaks in ’em. What does this Denver 
doc say?” 

“He says there’s just a bare chance. That’s 
all. Good-night, Terry. You can’t come in. 
This place is a hospital now, and Martin’s 
asleep. Come around to-morrow.” 

She stepped inside, closing the door softly 
behind her. Terry stumbled wearily along up 
the trail. 

“What good’s all this silver to me now?” 
he muttered. “Pooh! Sorry I ever bothered 
my head about the old strike.” 

At last he came to Dorn’s lonely shack. It 
stood dark and dismal against its black back- 
ground of trees. He pulled the pack from 
the burro, and let it lie where it fell, just 
outside the door. Then he staggered inside, 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


and flung himself on the bare floor, too 
exhausted to move another step. 

That night he dreamed of Bracklow clutch- 
ing wildly at the wall of Old Razorback and 
staring up at him with rolling eyes as he fell. 


CHAPTER XV 


THE LIFE SAVER 


T sunrise a tall, broad-shouldered man 



* with a close-trimmed, iron-gray beard 
stepped out of Effie Morrow’s cabin. For a 
moment he stood stretching himself and 
breathing deeply of the cool, pine-laden 
mountain air, then turned into the rough trail 
to sharpen his appetite for breakfast with a 
brisk walk. 

It was altogether too early for the usual run 
of Creede’s inhabitants to be abroad except 
the first shift of mine workers. Most of the 
settlement kept gamblers’ hours. 

But this man alone on the trail that bright 
summer morning bore no relation to the 
habits of the camp. He was neither gambler 
nor gunman ; neither was he a miner, nor con- 


191 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


nected in the slightest degree with any of the 
various interests of the busy gulch. Indeed, he 
was far from being any sort of conventional 
mining camp type. His was the face of a 
thinker and dreamer, but of a practical 
dreamer — the strong-featured, keen-eyed face 
of a man of action and of achievement. 

However, it was sometimes with the eyes of 
a poet and sometimes with the eager, compre- 
hending scrutiny of a naturalist that he 
studied his environment, pausing now and 
then to gaze rapturously at the brilliant colors 
of the dawn above the shimmering hills, often 
stooping to study a wildflower, or as often 
appearing to make mental note of the varieties 
of trees that grew along the borders of the 
creek or that were scattered over the steep 
hillsides — willows, aspens, cottonwoods, with 
a background of cedars, junipers, rock pines 
and proud Douglas spruces. 

A man of intellect and education, and a 
keen observer with a wonderful eye for detail, 
192 


THE LIFE SAVER 


he was not likely to be bored by solitude. He 
could have spent days in enthusiastic study of 
a single tree, and he would then have been 
able to write a fascinating book about it if the 
duties to which he had devoted his life had 
allowed him the time. 

The song of a green-tailed towhee — a song 
wild and free, with the swing of all outdoors 
— came to his ears, and he stood still, spell- 
bound. A moment later his eyes sparkled as 
he caught sight of a magpie raising above the 
tree-tops like a boy’s kite, with its long, slender 
tail trailing in the breeze. The bird’s iri- 
descent black plumage, set off with snowy 
white trimmings of the wings, gleamed bril- 
liantly in the sun. 

Not one passer-by in a hundred would 
have taken an instant’s interest in any of these 
things, but this solitary early morning wan- 
derer who was so fascinated by them all was 
very far from being an ordinary man. His 
appearance alone so plainly indicative of 
193 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


unusual strength of mind and character would 
have convinced any intelligent observer of 
that fact. 

And when Terry McGlory, hurrying along 
the trail on his way to Effie Morrow’s, caught 
sight of him, the distinguished-looking 
stranger instantly roused the boy’s curiosity. 

“Good-morning,” said the man, as Terry 
drew nearer. “Do you know anything about 
the birds in these hills?” 

Terry stopped, and studied the stranger 
from head to foot. He was not accustomed to 
questions of that kind, and was slightly be- 
wildered. “I’ve watched ’em a good deal,” he 
replied at last. 

“How many doors has a magpie’s nest?” 
demanded the man. 

“Two,” returned Terry, a little doubtful 
whether a stranger who was out at sunrise 
putting such demands to passers-by could be 
quite sane. 

“That is correct,” the man assented with 
194 


THE LIFE SAVER 


the air of a judge examining a witness. “You 
seem to know something about such things. 
Now perhaps you can tell me whether the 
magpie builds as high as timberline. I have 
heard that it does, but I am not certain.” 

“It does,” Terry answered. “I found a nest 
there once, clear up close to the snow line.” 

The stranger’s face beamed with apprecia- 
tion. “A boy after my own heart!” he 
exclaimed. “You seem to have eyes. So many 
boys are blind as bats nowadays — or rather as 
blind as bats are generally supposed to be, 
though as a matter of fact the bat can see 
perfectly well. Have you ever noticed 

whether the magpie’s eggs ” 

But Terry was in too much of a hurry to 
be on his way to listen to any more questions. 
“If you’ll excuse me, mister,” he interrupted, 
“I’d like to talk about things like that with 
you, but I’ve got to get to that cabin down 
below as quick as I can.” 

“Effie Morrow’s cabin?” 


195 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


“Yep. That’s it.” 

“Perhaps you won’t mind if I ask what 
takes you to that cabin. I happen to be staying 
there myself.” 

“You!” Terry exclaimed, staring at the 
stranger with a new interest. “You’re not — 
the Denver doc?” 

“I’m Doctor Gryerson of Denver. And I 
shouldn’t wonder if you are the boy I have 
been hearing about. Are you Dorn’s friend, 
Terry McGlory?” 

Terry nodded. He found it hard to find his 
voice now that he realized he stood in the 
presence of the great specialist. But after 
remaining in silent awe for a moment he burst 
out: “Say, doc; folks say that you’re the 
biggest man in your line in all the West, and 
that you can cure pretty near anybody if you 
try hard enough. I reckon I’ve got close to a 
thousand dollars in silver float that come from 
a strike up in the hills, and it’s all yours if 
you pull Dorn through.” 

196 


V 


THE LIFE SAVER 

Dr. Gryerson laughed loudly, and laid a 
big hand on Terry’s shoulder. 

“I don’t know what I’d do with a bag of 
float,” he said. “But you needn’t worry about 
my bill, sonny. Nick Creede will attend to 
that. And as for pulling Dorn through, I’ll 
do my best. That’s all I can promise. It isn’t 
a simple case by any means. If you were a 
surgeon I might explain it to you. But of 
course you know nothing about surgery. It’s 
a wound that would have killed almost any- 
body, but this gunman is so physically perfect 
that he has a chance. He must have led a 
clean life. What a pity that such strength, 
such courage, such iron nerves, such quickness 
of eye and of hand couldn’t have found some 
better employment than the taking of lives.” 

Terry winced, for he found a sting in the 
words. But he said nothing, and the doctor, 
remarking that his breakfast must be waiting 
for him, turned toward the cabin. 

Terry, although his only purpose in going 
197 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


to Effie’s had been to inquire about Dorn’s 
condition, walked along with him. The doc- 
tor began to talk about his work as a surgeon. 
He was a fascinating talker, and by the time 
they came to Effie’s door Terry had made up 
his mind that surgery was the greatest and 
most interesting of professions. Dr. Gryerson 
had suddenly become a hero to him, a worker 
of miracles, a magician who could save lives 
when others had given up hope, as heroic a 
figure as even Martin Dorn, the killer. 

After that morning it was not only anxiety 
for Dorn but also interest in the doctor that 
brought Terry many times to Effie’s cabin. 
Often he found the doctor cheerful and talk- 
ative, at other times grave and silent, appar- 
ently absorbed in thought over the difficult 
case he had on his hands. 

On one occasion the doctor, pacing nerv- 
ously to and fro in front of the cabin, spoke 
not a word in answer to Terry’s greeting; in 
fact he did not seem to realize that the boy was 
198 


THE LIFE SAVER 


there, though there was scarcely an arm’s 
length between them. For an instant he stared 
blankly at the boy, but there was no recog- 
nition in his eyes. 

Puzzled and a little alarmed, Terry spoke 
again. Still no answer; but the doctor, fasten- 
ing an iron grip on the boy’s arm, dragged 
him along with him as he resumed his meas- 
ured walk. Thoroughly bewildered, Terry 
kept pace with him for several minutes in 
silence, until at last the doctor gave a great 
gasp, shook himself, and seemed suddenly to 
realize that he was not alone. He was like 
a man coming out of a trance. 

“How long have you been here, young 
man?” he demanded sharply. 

“Ten or fifteen minutes perhaps,” Terry 
replied. 

“Hah!” exclaimed the doctor. “To tell the 
truth, I don’t believe I saw you. I’ve been 
thinking out a little problem relating to bullet 
wounds. Such things are absorbing if one 
199 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


really puts his mind on them properly, as 
perhaps you will discover if you ever become 
a surgeon yourself.” 

“Me!” gasped Terry. “You think I could 
ever be a surgeon?” 

• The doctor bestowed a long, searching look 
on the boy’s face, and shook his head. “I don’t 
know,” he said. “It hadn’t occurred to me. 
Would you like to be one?” 

“Yes, if I thought I had brains enough.” * 

“Oh, you’re probably clever enough, but it 
takes more than brains. It takes hard work 
and perseverance. If you were determined 
enough you would probably get there some- 
time, but only after years of hard study. Think 
it over. If you should ever decide to make the 
effort, come to see me in Denver, and I will 
see that you get started right. That silver 
float you mentioned would help to pay your 
expenses.” 

Very often after that talk with Dr. Gryer- 
son Terry pondered over the matter, and the 


200 


THE LIFE SAVER 

more he thought about it the more the idea 
appealed to him. “Dr. McGlory,” he would 
mutter to himself. “Dr. McGlory, the famous 
surgeon. Gee! Sounds good. I’m strong for 
that.” 

Some day, he assured himself, he would go 
down to Denver and tell Dr. Gryerson that 
he was ready to begin. But in the meantime 
there was the strike to occupy his attention, 
and nothing could be done about that until 
Dorn was well again. He knew he could not 
swing such an undertaking alone, and he 
meant to make the gunman a partner. 

But Dorn’s life was still hanging in the 
balance. For a time it looked as if he had 
scarcely a chance, when indeed he sank so low 
that it seemed as if the end might come at 
any moment. Somehow he pulled through 
that crisis, and one morning Terry found the 
doctor jubilant. 

“Your gunman is going to be on his feet 
again before very long,” he announced. Then, 


201 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


with a shrug of his big shoulders, he added 
sadly, “And I suppose he will go stalking 
about with his gun in his belt snuffing out a 
man’s life now and then, just as before. 
There’s only one glimmer of hope that he will 
change his ways, so far as I can see.” 

“What’s that?” asked Terry. 

“Effie Morrow,” replied the doctor. “I 
have fairly observant eyes, my boy, and it 
seems to me there is a chance that Miss Mor- 
row may become Mrs. Dorn some day. 
There’ll be fewer dead men in the West if 
she does.” 


CHAPTER XVI 

CALLED BACK 

THORN’S recovery was rapid after the 
crisis had passed, and before long he was 
as sound and vigorous as ever. The Com- 
mittee of Public Safety were glad to get him 
into service again, for Pastor and the remain- 
ing elements of the crowd that had given the 
camp a reputation for lawlessness were grow- 
ing menacing once more, and it was plain that 
there was still some cleaning up to be done. 

What was more, the new railroad extension, 
from Del Norte, the old terminal, all the way 
to the gulch, was bringing in a steady flow of 
newcomers, a good many of whom were a 
hard-looking lot, who might be expected to 
side with the unruly element in case of 
trouble. 


203 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


New strikes had been made, the Holy 
Moses, the Amethyst and other big producers 
were revealing new riches, and men who, 
knowing the fate of so many other mining 
camps whose mines had petered out after a 
few feverish weeks, had cautiously held off, 
were now rushing in by hundreds, convinced 
that Creede was on the map to stay. 

However, the business that had brought 
Dorn to the camp was completed, and he 
found it hard to convince himself that there 
was any further excuse for remaining. He had 
received news from the Panhandle that Bull 
Morgan was in trouble, that he was being 
harassed by new enemies and that his life was 
in danger. He knew he ought to be hurrying 
back to help his employer in this emergency. 

“You got to stay here,” Terry said, after 
showing him the silver and telling how he 
had found his father’s strike. “You got to stay 
here and help me get the stuff out. We’ll be 
204 


CALLED BACK 


partners. I’m under age, so you’ll file the 
claim in your name and we’ll go halves.” 

The gunman shook his head. 

“I don’t know nothing about mining, son,” 
he returned. “And I couldn’t let a thing like 
that interfere with what I owe to old Bull. 
He needs me, and I s’pose I got to go. I’m a 
killer. That’s my business, and I reckon it’s 
too late for me to be anything else.” 

“Somebody’s been telling me you could do 
anything you set your mind on if you’d only 
try,” said Terry. 

“Who told you that, son?” 

“Effie Morrow.” 

“Huh? Say, do you mean to tell me that 
girl said something like that?” The gunman’s 
despondent expression had suddenly given 
way to a broad grin. 

“She sure did,” affirmed Terry. 

Dorn jumped up from the box he had been 
sitting on, and began pacing nervously up and 
down the shack. 

205 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


“If I believed for a minute that girl had 
any faith in me,” he said, “I dunno but I’d — 
Sho! What am I ravin’ about, anyhow.” The 
grin vanished. “Why, she don’t care two 
sticks about me. She sure was good to me 
when I was laid up, but that don’t mean any- 
thing. She’d have done the same for any other 
feller if his life depended on it.” 

“Well, I dunno as it’s any of my business,” 
said Terry, “but if you want to find out what 
she thinks I don’t see any harm in your going 
and asking her.” 

Dorn stopped short, his mouth dropped 
open, and he started at Terry stupidly. 

“Oh, no, son,” he said at last, shaking his 
head. “I got nerve, but it ain’t that kind of 
nerve. Ask me to do something easy. I’ll go 
out and get shot at, or anything like that, but 
I’ve got my limits.” 

Terry brooded over the matter for a few 
moments. 

“Seems too bad that you’re going to quit 
206 


CALLED BACK 


and go back to the Panhandle without know- 
ing for sure how you stand with Eflie,” he 
concluded. “Reckon I’ll have to go and ask 
her myself how things stand.” 

Dorn sat down on the box again, and stared 
at the floor. Apparently he was doing some 
hard thinking. 

“This ain’t no joking matter, son,” he 
remarked after a long silence. “That girl’s 
sure got me locoed, and no mistake. P’raps I 
better hang on here for a while after all, 
though it don’t seem right to treat old Bull 
that way when he’s in so much trouble.” 

Terry’s heart gave a jump. “You mean 
it?” he cried, his face beaming. “You’re going 
to stay?” 

“Well, it sort of begins to look that way, 
son,” Dorn replied. “It sure does. It begins 
to look now as if ” 

He broke off abruptly, and turned sharply 
to the half-closed Hoor with a startled look in 
his eyes. “What’s that!” he cried. 

207 


THE SILVER PRINCE 

Dead silence fell for a moment. Then from 
without came a curious sound like the slow, 
measured tapping of a stick on stone. Some- 
times it was quick and sharp, sometimes 
scarcely audible, as if the tapping were no 
longer on stone but on gravel or soft earth. 

Dorn and Terry stared at each other, and 
the expression of dread in the gunman’s face 
puzzled and alarmed the boy. Tap, tap, tap. 
Steadily the sound was drawing nearer. 

“I’ve heard a sound like that before,” said 
Dorn solemnly. “I reckon I know what it 
means.” 

“What is it?” demanded Terry nervously. 
“What does it mean?” 

Dorn got up, strode to the door, and looked 
out. “It means, son, that I’m called back to 
where I come from,” he answered, and he 
stepped out into the trail. Quickly Terry fol- 
lowed him. 

Tap, tap, tap. A man on crutches was 
coming slowly up the trail, a giant of a man, 
208 


CALLED BACK 


red-haired, red-bearded, bull-necked. It was 
Bull Morgan, from the Panhandle. Terry’s 
heart stopped beating for a moment as he 
realized that the dreaded cripple had come 
to get his man killer. 

“Hello, Bull!” said Dorn, as Morgan drew 
near. “You sure have given me a surprise.” 

The cripple stopped, and, hanging on his 
crutches, glared fiercely at Dorn from under 
shaggy eyebrows. The work of dragging him- 
self up the trail seemed to have been almost 
too much for him, for he was breathing 
heavily. 

“Why in blazes didn’t you come back?” he 
roared. “Thought you was all shot up and in 
bed, and here you be as spry as ever. What 
you tryin’ to do, quit me?” The man’s little, 
deep-set eyes flashed angrily. 

“Come inside, Bull,” said Dorn. “We’ll 
talk it over. You need a rest.” 

They moved on into the shack, where 
Morgan sank wearily into the one chair the 
209 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


place afforded. Terry discreetly remained 
outside, until Dorn called him in and intro- 
duced him to the visitor. Morgan stared 
grimly at the boy for a moment, then turned 
savagely to Dorn. 

“Talk it over is what you said,” he growled. 
“Talk what over? Mean to talk over whether 
you’re coming back? Is that your game? 
Why, dern you, you skulkin’ hyena, you ain’t 
thinking of leaving me in the lurch now, be 
you?” 

“Now, don’t get excited, Bull,” put in 
Dorn coolly. “I haven’t said I was going to 
quit you, have I?” 

“You may not have said it, but you’re sure 
actin’ mighty like it. What’s goin’ on in that 
head of yours, anyhow? You might as well 
come right out with it now and have done with 
it. Come on now; let’s get right down to 
tacks.” 

Dorn reached for a box, and, placing it 


210 


CALLED BACK 


directly in front of Morgan, sat down on it 
and bent toward him. 

“I s’pose I might have sent you a letter, 
Bull,” he said, “but I ain’t much at writing. 
Haven’t tried writing a letter in years, and I 
reckon you ain’t, neither. I was laid up for 
quite a spell, and then the days sort of slid 
along and I thought I’d better be sure I was 
cured up good and proper before going back. 
Half mended I wouldn’t have been much 
good to you. And I never expected you was 
going to come all the way up here huntin’ for 
me. Don’t see why you came, anyhow.” 

“You don’t see why I came, hey?” Morgan 
snarled. “You think I’d let a pal die all alone 
up here after I’d heard he was plugged full 
o’ lead? I got news that you was pretty nigh 
done for, Martin, and that the angels was 
tuning up to welcome you, and I came aflyin’, 
hopin’ to get in before the finish. No man can 
say Bull Morgan ever failed to stand by a pal. 
I wasn’t the man to let you die all alone up 


21 1 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


here. You know me better than that, Martin. 
’Twa’n’t my fault if the news got to me too 
late to bring me here when you was laid up. 
And now I find you as spry as a cockroach, 
and actin’ like you never did want to come 
back. You got somethin’ on your mind, 
Martin. What is it? Spit it out.” 

Dorn was plainly worried. He began to 
pace nervously to and fro in the little room — 
a way of his when there was trouble on his 
mind — and it was some time before he spoke. 

“I’m going to tell'you the truth, Bull,” he 
began at last. “I sort of got to thinking that 
it was about time I ought to quit being just 
a killer. Seemed like there wasn’t going to be 
no more room for gun fighters nowhere before 
long, and that I’d better quit while the quittin’ 
was good. So I’d — well, I’d been thinking 
some of — of hangin’ on in this here camp for 
a spell.” 

For a moment or two the room was so quiet 
that Terry heard the faint scratching of a 


212 


CALLED BACK 

beetle’s claw as it crawled slowly across the 
bare floor. 

Hunched up in his chair the cripple was 
glowering at Dorn with eyes as steady and 
unwavering as a hawk’s. Then one of his big, 
hairy hands gripped a crutch, and began to 
tap the floor with it sharply. 

“There’s somethin’ more, Martin.” There 
was an ominous ring in the man’s harsh, rasp- 
ing voice. 

“Something more?” Dorn echoed. “What 
d’you mean?” 

“I mean you ain’t told me all?” The crutch 
was still beating a tattoo on the uncarpeted 
boards. 

Terry had been watching Dorn anxiously, 
and it seemed to him that the gunman’s reso- 
lution was beginning to waver. The boy 
decided it was high time to urge him to stand 
firm. 

“I know what he means,” Terry broke in. 
“He means Effie. Go on and tell him. Tell 


213 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


him you ain’t going to quit that girl to do 
his killing for him.” 

“Huh!” grunted Morgan. “I knew it. So 
it’s a girl, hey? You’re tryin’ to give me the 
go-by for a girl. But I can’t make out why 
that’s got to hinder you. Can’t you bring her 
along?” 

“She wouldn’t come,” Dorn answered sul- 
lenly. “That is, she wouldn’t if I was going 
to stick to the old business. And I dunno as 
she cares a hoot about me, anyhow.” 

Bull Morgan gave a snort of contempt. 

“She’s too nice for you, eh? Goin’ to let 
her make a mollycoddle out of you. Huh! 
And you the best gun fighter in Texas. Goin’ 
to give it all up for a girl. Martin, you used 
to have pretty good sense, but I’ll be derned if 
I don’t believe that bullet knocked it clean out 
of you. Huh! And you don’t even know if 
she’ll have you! Well, she prob’ly won’t — 
not if she’s so blamed partic’lar about a man’s 
214 


CALLED BACK 


repytation and knows what a record you’ve 
got to your name.” 

“I reckon you may be right, Bull.” 

“And now looka here, Martin. What’ll the 
folks down in the Panhandle be thinkin’ when 
they hear you’re not cornin’ back? What’ll 
they say when they hear you’ve quit me when 
things is gettin’ so hot for me down there? 
They’ll say you’re afraid to come back. That’s 
what they’ll say. They’ll say Martin Dorn’s 
got a yeller streak in him. I’d hate to have 
the repytation they’ll give you, Martin, when 
they hear you’ve quit me. But I ain’t makin’ 
no complaint, though I got the biggest fight 
of my life on my hands down there now. 
Every derned horse thief in the country that 
ever had a grudge agin me must have joined 
that crew we’ve been after, and they figure 
they’ve got me pretty nigh done for. And 
p’raps they’re right. Mebbe old Bull’s about 
come to the end of his rope.” 

The cripple raised himself on his crutches, 
215 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


and for an instant the grim, hard lines of his 
face softened as his eyes turned in pathetic 
appeal to Dorn. 

“So it’s come to sayin’ good-by between you 
and me, eh, Martin?” His voice, now sinking 
very low, was shaking a little. “Well, I won’t 
hold nothing agin you. I got no complaint. 
But I’ve stood by you, pal. No matter how 
things went I’ve alius stood by you. And if 
you want to quit me now that I’m gettin’ old 
and every man’s hand is turned agin me — 
well, it ain’t for me to say you got a yeller 
streak in you, though others may.” 

Tap, tap went the crutches as the broken 
old warrior moved slowly to the door. Dorn, 
breathing hard, his face flushed, stood watch- 
ing him. Morgan pulled the door open, and 
swung himself outside. 

“Bull!” The gunman sprang forward. 
“I’m with you! There’s no man can say I’ve 
got a yeller streak in me. We’re goin’ back to 
Texas together.” 


216 


CALLED BACK 


At that moment Terry McGlory clutched 
at Dorn’s arm. 

“Martin!” cried the boy. “You don’t mean 
it? You’re not going back?” 

The gunman roughly pulled himself away. 

“You quit botherin’ me, son,” he cried, 
“t’m going back! Nobody can keep me here 
now. I’m going back to be a killer — same as 
I always was.” 


CHAPTER XVII 


IN THE MOONLIGHT 

B ROODING dismally over the prospect 
of Dorn’s return with Bull Morgan to 
Texas, Terry McGlory was strolling along 
San Luis Avenue when he caught sight of a 
tall, raw-boned stranger who had propped 
himself against the front of the Grand Hotel. 

Though Grand was the name of this hos- 
telry, that was as far as any suggestion of 
grandeur went. It was a rough, unpainted, 
wooden structure of two stories, with a false 
front which gave it a three-story aspect to 
anybody facing it squarely but which surely 
could have deceived no passer-by with ordi- 
narily good eyesight for more than one fleet- 
ing instant of admiration. 

Its little grimy windows were decorated 
218 


IN THE MOONLIGHT 


with red calico curtains, and its impressive 
name was painted in letters of the same vivid 
hue above the door. 

The appearance of the stranger whose back 
was flattened against this haven of refuge was 
as deceptive as the false front. At first glance 
from a little distance he was impressive with 
his big limbs, flowing mustache, huge som- 
brero, heavy gun belt and spurred boots. But 
closer inspection dispelled this illusion, for 
the dominating feature of a thin, chinless face 
was a pair of crossed eyes, which seemed to be 
focused sharply upon the narrow bridge of 
the nose. As a matter of fact, however, the 
eyes were focused upon Terry. 

“Kid, you look like you might be ac- 
quainted round these diggings,” said the cross- 
eyed lounger as Terry drew near. “I’m 
seekin’ information respectin’ a cahoot known 
as Slim Vorus.” 

Terry failed to recall that he had ever 
heard the name. 


219 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


“Mebbe you’ve set eyes on him,” persisted 
the stranger. “He ain’t much to look at, but 
he’s easy to remember, bein’ that he’s got one 
ear less than the number allowed to most 
folks. If you happen to recollect havin’ seen 
a one-eared, ewe-necked, slab-sided, thievish- 
lookin’ varmint at any time, that’s him.” 

“Why, sure thing,” returned Terry. “There 
was a sort of scrawny-looking one-eared feller 
that drifted in here only last week. I heard 
him tell somebody he was going up into the 
hills for a few days prospecting.” 

“That’s him,” declared Cross-eyes. “I 
reckon nothin’ remains for yours truly but to 
hang around restin’ and waitin’. He’ll be 
back.” 

“You must want to see him pretty bad,” re- 
marked Terry. 

For an instant the stranger’s eyeballs almost 
disappeared behind the bridge of his nose and 
his hands went to the two big six-shooters that 


220 


IN THE MOONLIGHT 


hung at his hips. Evidently he was stirred 
by intense emotion. 

“Do I want to see him bad?” he echoed 
shrilly. “Why, young feller, I’ve been tryin’ 
for seven long years to set my eyes on that 
skulkin’ horse thief. Me and him was layin’ 
out a claim together oncet up on the Big 
Thompson. One mornin’ I wakes up to find 
he’d lit out, takin’ with him my cayuse and 
money bag. And since then most of my heavy 
thinkin’ has been directed toward locatin’ his 
trail. Up at Jackson’s Hole I got wind that 
he was last seen headin’ this way, so here I 
be. My name is Crawbuck. Old Cross-eyes 
they calls me, which is as good a name as any; 
and up round Jackson’s Hole folks will tell 
you that I can shoot a derned sight straighter 
than I seem to be lookin’.” 

It was very plain to Terry that there was 
going to be some excitement in camp when 
Slim Vorus got back. He thought Dorn 
would be interested in hearing what Old 


221 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


Cross-eyes had divulged. But the Texan was 
busy somewhere about town getting ready for 
his departure. He and Morgan planned to 
start for the Panhandle that night. 

A little farther down the street Terry came 
upon a fast-growing group of men who 
seemed to be affected by some unusual excite- 
ment. Among them were Joe Teed and Mc- 
Whorter. 

“What’s up?” Terry inquired of the editor. 

“Why, son, it’s this way,” began Joe. 
“There’s a gun fighter just drifted into this 
camp who’s got these boys plumb locoed.” 

“He must be pretty good if he makes ’em 
feel that way,” observed Terry. 

The editor rubbed his round chin thought- 
fully. 

“Well, son, I dunno how good he is, but 
he’s a blamed bad actor when he’s riled, 
judgin’ from what folks say. Seems he blew 
in here like he was on the hunt for somebody 
to shoot daylight into, and got the boys as 


222 


IN THE MOONLIGHT 


nervous as grasshoppers for the reason that 
nobody could tell which way he was lookin’. 
When a gazabo roams around loose with two 
guns in his belt and a pair of crossed eyes like 
he’s got it’s enough to make anybody feel 
nervous.” 

It was high time, so Terry decided, to ease 
the mind of everybody concerned by repeat- 
ing what Old Cross-eyes had revealed to him, 
and he proceeded to tell the editor of his talk 
with the visitor from Jackson’s Hole. 

Joe was prompt to pass this information 
along. 

“The cross-eyed gent is lookin’ for a one- 
eared feller known as Slim Vorus,” he shouted 
to the crowd. “The same Slim Vorus has 
mosied up into the hills prospectin’ for a few 
days, so we all might as well stop worrying 
till he gets back. The cross-eyed gent prob- 
ably won’t want any trouble till then.” 

“He may be huntin’ for this Slim Vorus all 
right” put in Big Steve Bailey, “but that ain’t 
223 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


sayin’ that them ugly eyes of his’n ain’t going 
to get him into trouble with other folks. I 
was dead certain he had ’em set on me when 
I run across him to-day, and when his hand 
happened to slide around under his coat I was 
just goin’ to plug him instead of takin’ any un- 
necessary chances.” 

“Well, what stopped you?” the editor de- 
manded. 

“Why, Joe, that feller wasn’t lookin’ at me at 
all. He was lookin’ at his horse. And if he 
hadn’t spoke to the cayuse just then I’d never 
have knowed the difference. But now let me 
ask you this : Is it safe to have a slant-eyed gun 
toter like that roamin’ loose in this here town? 
S-posin’ he does get into trouble. What 
chance agin him would a feller have when he 
couldn’t tell which way the cuss was lookin’?” 

The crowd seemed to be with Steve on that 
proposition. 

“He’s right, Joe,” put in McWhorter. “If 
it should come to a fight this cross-eyed guy 
224 


IN THE MOONLIGHT 


would sure have all the boys guessin’. There’d 
be no tellin’ which way his guns was goin’ 
off.” 

For a moment the editor pondered over this 
problem in silence. It seemed to be too much 
for him. 

“I dunno what we can do about it so long 
as he stays peaceable,” he said. “I’ll admit 
he’s a nerve-wracking sort of crittur to have 
around loose, but I never heard there was any 
law against being cross-eyed.” 

It was beginning to grow dark, and along 
the street here and there windows were al- 
ready aglow with lamplight. Terry set off 
to look for Dorn, and before long found him 
swinging along alone on his way up the gulch. 

“On my way to say good-by to Effie,” Dorn 
told him. “Want you to come, too. It’s goin’ 
to be sort of a hard job for me, and it’ll make 
it easier havin’ somebody along with me, I 
reckon. I’m feelin’ all broke up, son — all 
broke up. I don’t want to leave her, and I 
225 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


don’t want to leave you. But what else can 
I do? I can’t go back on poor old Bull.” 

“I don’t see why you’ve got to ruin yourself 
for that feller,” Terry said. “Far as I can see 
he’s got no claim to ” 

The gunman cut him short. “Now don’t 
you try any more arguin’, little man,” he com- 
manded sharply. “I’ve given Bull my word 
that I’ll go back with him, and that settles 
it. There’s nobody can ever say my word 
ain’t as good as gold.” 

For a few minutes they walked along with- 
out speaking. Both were thoroughly miser- 
able. 

“I met a cross-eyed feller down below,” said 
Terry at last, “who’s looking for trouble. 
Says he’s after a man known as Slim Vorus.” 

Dorn suddenly became alert. “Slim 
Vorus!” he echoed. “A man with one ear?” 

Terry nodded. 

“You seen Slim Vorus round here, son?” 

Terry gave an inquiring glance at the gun- 

226 


IN THE MOONLIGHT 


man, whose apparent excitement puzzled him. 
“I’ve seen a feller with one ear. He’s gone up 
into the hills. Cross-eyes is dead sure it was 
him, and he’s waiting for him to come back.” 

Dorn pursed his lips, and looked very seri- 
ous. He seemed inclined to keep his thoughts 
to himself, but after a time he volunteered: 

“I knew Slim Vorus once. He was one of 
Bull’s worst enemies down in the Panhandle. 
Bull made it too hot for him down there, and 
he had to get out. And believe me he was 
some peevish when he had to move. About 
the only satisfaction he could get out of it was 
in leaving word for Bull that he’d get him 
sometime, even if it took twenty years. A bad 
customer to deal with, this Vorus is; a sneak 
who’ll shoot without givin’ the other feller a 
chance. I sure hope the cross-eyed guy gets 
him. It would mean so much trouble out of 
the way for Bull.” 

A full moon was hanging over the gulch, 
and the cedars and tall, straight pines cast 
227 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


sharp shadows across the trail. A lighted 
window, in feeble rivalry of the moonlight, 
glimmered close ahead in Effie Morrow’s 
cabin. 

“You go on in,” said Terry. “I’ll wait for 
you.” 

“No, son,” Dorn protested. “I want you 
with me. It would take the heart right out of 
me to be all alone sayin’ good-by to that girl. 
It’ll be hard enough anyhow.” 

But Terry had decided that Effie might not 
be pleased to have a third party present on 
such an occasion, and, after some argument, he 
had his way. 

He stood watching Dorn until he had dis- 
appeared inside the cabin, then strolled aim- 
lessly along the trail with his hands in his 
pockets and his thoughts gloomier than ever. 
He had made up his mind that he would prob- 
ably never see Dorn again after that evening. 
The life of a gunman holding such a hazard- 
228 


IN THE MOONLIGHT 


ous job as that of Bull Morgan’s killer was 
not likely to be a very long one. 

The time dragged tediously, and after a 
long wait he decided he had had enough of 
strolling to and fro, and sat down on a rock 
heavily shadowed by trees. Fully half an 
hour more passed. 

Then his attention was attracted by a slight 
sound in the direction of the cabin. He lis- 
tened intently. He heard voices, low and in- 
distinct. 

Slowly the voices drew nearer, and he knew 
that Effie and Dorn were strolling along the 
trail together. They came at last to within 
only a few steps of where Terry was waiting, 
and there they stopped. Terry could hear 
almost every word now. 

“I’m powerful sorry to go,” Dorn was say- 
ing, “but I just got to do it. There ain’t no 
way out of it. And what makes me sorriest 
of all is — is leavin’ you. I — I didn’t expect 
I’d be sayin’ that much to you, but I reckon 
229 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


you won’t care about my goin’ away, me bein’ 
only a killer.” 

“But you could give up being a killer if you 
wanted to,” said Effie. “I’d hoped you were 
going to leave all that dreadful past behind, 
and try to make something of yourself. I 
know you would succeed at anything you 
might try. You’re not the kind that fails.” 

“You believe that?” The gunman’s voice 
was trembling. 

“Of course I believe it,” cried Effie. “Oh, 
why don’t you try?” 

“It’s too late to try now,” Dorn answered 
hoarsely. “I’ve given my word to Bull Mor- 
gan, and I never break my word. I reckon I 
better be sayin’ good-by now. I’ve been here 
a whole lot longer than I’d figured on, and 
Bull will be wonderin’ where I am. But it 
ain’t easy for me to say good-by to you, Effie. 
It’s derned hard.” 

There was silence for a moment, and sud- 
denly Terry was startled by a stifled sob. He 
230 


IN THE MOONLIGHT 


crept a little way out from the trees, and in 
the soft moonlight he saw Effie wiping her 
eyes with a handkerchief and with the gun- 
man’s arm around her. 

“Huh !” grunted Terry, and drew back into 
the shadows. “Too bad she couldn’t have 
loosened up those tears before old Bull Mor- 
gan blew into camp.” 

He heard Dorn groan. 

“Honest, Effie, I didn’t know you cared,” 
he said bitterly. “If I’d thought for a minute 
that you cared the least little bit about me I’d 
never have given my word to Bull. But it’s 
no use talkin’ about it any more. I got to go. 
You better forget about me. I’ll be nothin’ 
but a killer all my life.” 

“Good-by,” sobbed Effie. “I’ll try to for- 
get about you if you’re going back to Bull 
Morgan. It’s for you to decide.” 

Dorn seemed to hesitate. “If I could only 
see any way round it, Effie,” he began uncer- 
tainly, as if his resolution were already fal- 
231 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


tering, “I’d- ” He broke off abruptly. 

From close by on the trail came the tap, tap, 
tap of crutches. 

“That settles it,” groaned Dorn. “It’s Bull 
Morgan. He’s come for me.” 

Tap, tap, tap. The sound was coming 
nearer and nearer. Presently the cripple ap- 
peared from out of the shadows of the gulch. 
For a moment he paused, hanging on his 
crutches, his eyes fixed fiercely on Dorn. 

Then another sound woke the echoes of the 
night — the clatter of horse’s hoofs. Suddenly 
a rider came into full view in the moonlight, 
and pulled up close to Morgan. Terry gave 
a start. Unmistakably the man had only one 
ear. 

A shot rang out, and Morgan sank to the 
ground as the rider, putting spurs to his horse, 
rode swiftly away down the trail. 

Dorn had reached for his guns the instant 
the shot was fired, but Effie had clung to his 
hands. 


232 


IN THE MOONLIGHT 


“Let him go!” she cried. “Let him go! 
You’ve done killing enough. And you’re 
saved, Martin! Don’t you see that man has 
saved you? You won’t have to be a killer 
now.” 

Dorn pulled himself away from her and 
stepped to Morgan’s side. The cripple was 
dead. There was no doubt of that. 

“Poor old Bull!” muttered Dorn. “Poor 
old Bull ! He was a good friend of mine. He 
stood by me, no matter what trouble came. If 
that bullet had been for me instead of him old 
Bull would never have rested till he had 
squared accounts. And it’s up to me to do the 
same by him. I’ve got my work cut out for 
me. I can’t quit the killing business till I’ve 
squared accounts with Vorus. I’m goin’ after 
that varmint right now.” 

“Don’t do it, Martin!” pleaded Effie, cling- 
ing to him desperately. “Don’t you see that 
your chance has come to begin a new life? If 
you don’t take it now you never will. There’ll 
233 


THE SILVER PRINCE 

always be some excuse for keeping on in the 
old way.” 

The gunman’s mouth tightened into a thin, 
straight line, and his eyes flashed. 

“I know what my duty is,” he said. 

“Your duty is to leave that man to the law,” 
cried Effie sharply. “And I’ll tell you this 
much, Martin Dorn: If you kill him you 
needn’t come back to me — no, never.” 

Dorn glanced at the dead cripple, and the 
sight seemed to rouse him to fury. He 
clenched his fists. 

“I’ll kill him,” he said. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


VENGEANCE 

TT did not take long for the news of the kill- 
ing of Bull Morgan to spread through the 
gulch. When Martin appeared that night in 
San Luis Avenue without his usual grin and 
with his face set in the hard, grim, fighting 
lines that had meant death for many a gun- 
man a thrill of excitement ran along the street. 
Men came flocking out of stores and homes 
and resorts stirred by the report that the 
Texan was out for another killing. 

Word was whispered about from man to 
man and from group to group that it was a 
one-eared stranger named Vorus that Dorn 
was looking for. But where was this Vorus? 
Nobody seemed to be able to answer that ques- 
tion. 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


At the same time nobody doubted that he 
would be found before the night was over. 
He might have left the camp already, but it 
seemed scarcely likely, for no man resembling 
him had been seen at the railroad or had been 
met by travelers who had come up the wagon 
road from Del Norte. 

Dorn, after searching the street, visited one 
resort after another, but without success. At 
last in Muller’s place he got news of his man. 
Vorus had been seen an hour before going 
into the Grand Hotel. 

“The Grand Hotel,” mused Dorn. “Why, 
that’s where the kid met Old Cross-eyes. I’d 
clean forgot about him. If they’re both hang- 
ing out at the Grand there’s likely to be some 
shooting before I get there.” 

Suddenly he had seen a way to save himself 
with Effie. He could leave Vorus to the cross- 
eyed man. And already vague doubts had 
been passing through his mind of his duty to 
avenge Bull Morgan’s death. It was his duty 
236 


VENGEANCE 


according to the code of the gunmen. But he 
had begun to realize since knowing Effie that 
there was a higher code than that. 

But the eyes of every man in Muller’s place 
were upon him. He knew what they expected 
of him, what the whole camp was waiting 
for. He was a killer. He must live up to his 
reputation. Swinging on his heels, he strode 
out of the place and toward the Grand Hotel. 

The Texan and cross-eyed Crawbuck were 
not the only seekers after Vorus that night. 
Terry McGlory had lost no time in laying his 
plans. He must find Vorus. Long before 
Dorn’s call at Muller’s, the boy was on the 
hunt for the man. In San Luis Avenue he met 
Joe Teed, and, realizing that the editor was 
more likely than anybody else to have the 
latest news, he asked him if he had heard any- 
thing of Vorus’s whereabouts. 

“Just got the tip that he’s stopping at the 
Grand,” Joe informed him. “I’m looking for 
Dorn now to tell him.” 

237 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


“What do you want to tell him for?” de- 
manded Terry. “Don’t you know that if 
Dorn kills that man it’s all off between him 
and Effie? She’s told him that.” 

The editor frowned and bit his lips. 

“That’s something I hadn’t thought of,” 
he said. “So Effie won’t stand for any more 
gun play, hey? Mebbe she’s right. There’s 
been altogether too much of it in this camp. 
Guess I’ll let Dorn alone. But somebody else 
is sure to give him the tip pretty quick. It’s 
no use, son. Dorn’s going to get his man all 
right.” 

Terry hurried away to the hotel. On enter- 
ing the place he found himself in a big, bare 
room with a sanded floor where the air was 
blue with tobacco smoke. The Grand was a 
busy place, and there were many men in the 
room talking and smoking. 

Across one end ran a long counter, behind 
which stood an important-looking man with 
a huge, bristling mustache, whom Terry rec- 
238 


VENGEANCE 


ognized as the proprietor of the establish- 
ment. The boy walked over to the counter, 
and the man behind it nodded to him. 

“Man named Vorus stopping here?” asked 
Terry. “I got business with him.” 

“Feller with one ear?” 

“Yep, that’s him,” said Terry. 

“He’s upstairs in his room. Go up to the 
end of the hall. Room eleven.” 

Terry’s heart gave a jump. He felt that 
luck was with him. But he also realized that 
there was not a moment to be lost. As he ran 
up the stairs the fear that Dorn might already 
be on his way to the hotel set his nerves on 
edge. 

At the top of the stairs a door stood open, 
and in the room behind it a man, fully dressed 
even to his boots, lay on a bed smoking a pipe. 
The man’s face was turned away from the 
door, but there was something about his ap- 
pearance that startled Terry. He stopped, 
239 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


and studied the long, thin figure on the blan- 
kets more closely. 

At the same time he observed that it was a 
good-sized room, though very barely fur- 
nished. In addition to the bed were a chair, 
a washstand and a little table, and on 
this table lay two revolvers of huge caliber. 
Beside them stood a very small oil lamp, 
whose wick had burned low, casting a dim, 
flickering light. A solitary little window 
opened wide upon a fire escape, which ran 
down the rear wall of the building. 

After a moment the occupant of the bed 
turned his head slightly, and Terry drew back 
with a start. The man was cross-eyed Craw- 
buck. 

Terry tiptoed up the hall, wondering at the 
coincidence that had brought Crawbuck and 
Vorus to the same floor. Again he stopped, 
held by the thought that it would be a simple 
matter to tell Old Cross-eyes of Vorus’s 
whereabouts, in which case Bull Morgan’s 
240 


VENGEANCE 


slayer would probably not be alive by the time 
Dorn arrived on the scene. 

“I won’t do it,” he muttered. “I can’t take 
a hand in murder. I’d be as guilty as Craw- 
buck.” 

He put the temptation from him, and con- 
tinued along the hall. As he came to the door 
on which the number eleven was painted he 
felt his nerves shaking. He held a man’s life 
in his hands, and he must make no mistakes. 
He was the messenger of Fate, and his mis- 
sion had never seemed so serious as at that 
moment. 

But for the first time it occurred to him 
that it was not certain what man’s life it was 
he held in his hands. If he should warn 
Vorus the man would be prepared and might 
be able to shoot Dorn without giving the 
Texan a fair chance. Terry had reasoned 
from what he had heard of Vorus’s character 
that, rather than face Dorn, the man would 
241 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


lose no time in making good his escape. But 
suppose he had misjudged the stranger. 

“Sho!” he muttered. “If Vorus don’t run 
away he’s done for. Dorn’s too quick with a 
gun to be in danger from him.” 

Without further hesitation, he knocked on 
the door. 

“Come in,” a man called lazily. 

Terry stepped inside. A scrawny, round- 
shouldered man, with close-cropped black 
hair, pale, unsteady little eyes and only an 
ugly red welt where one of his ears should 
have been was seated in a chair polishing a 
nickel-plated revolver. 

“Your name Vorus?” asked Terry. 

The man nodded. “That’s me.” 

“Ever hear of a man named Martin Dorn?” 

The man gave a yawn, and stretched him- 
self. “Down in the Panhandle country? 
Yeah, I’ve heard of him. What about him?” 

“He’s outside somewheres looking for you 
with a gun.” 


242 


VENGEANCE 


Slim Vorus sprang to his feet, and his face 
turned white. “Does he know I’m in here?” 
he cried. 

“If he don’t he soon will. You better get 
out in a hurry.” 

The pale, shifty eyes turned upon Terry 
suspiciously. “You stringin’ me or tellin’ the 
truth?” he demanded. “What business is it 
of yours? ’Pears to me you’re takin’ a power- 
ful lot of trouble for a man you never seen be- 
fore.” 

“You wait here and you’ll find out soon 
enough whether I’m telling the truth,” said 
Terry. “The whole camp knows by this time 
that Dorn’s on your trail. If you don’t be- 
lieve me go out and ask anybody in the street.” 

Vorus turned to the window and looked out. 
Suddenly his legs seemed to sag. 

“He’s out there now! He’s coming in!” he 
cried in a voice shaking with fear. He turned 
to the chair where he had left his gun, and 
with trembling hands picked up the weapon 
243 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


and slipped it into his belt. “He’ll be up here 
in a minute. What’ll I do? I got no chance 
with that man — not a chance on earth.” 

“Lock the door!” cried Terry. 

“There ain’t no lock. They don’t make ’em 
that way in this dump.” 

“Go into another room.” 

“No use. He’ll look through ’em all.” 

“There’s a ” Terry checked himself. 

He had been about to reveal the fact that a fire 
escape ran by the window of the room in the 
rear, but that would have sent the man to 
almost certain death at the hands of Craw- 
buck. He wanted to save this miserable crea- 
ture. Somehow he suddenly began to feel 
sorry for him, he seemed so helpless and des- 
perate. 

In a panic of terror, Vorus ran into the hall. 
At the same moment heavy footsteps sounded 
on the stairs. Vorus took a furtive glance 
over the railing, and darted back. 

“It’s him!” he cried under his breath. 

244 


VENGEANCE 


“He’s got me trapped!” He turned to Terry 
in desperation. “Ain’t there no way at all?” 

“There’s one way,” cried Terry. “Come 
on!” 

He ran down the hall to the head of the 
stairs, Vorus close at his heels. Dorn was 
half way to the top. There was only one way 
now for Vorus to escape, and that way led 
through Crawbuck’s room. He would have 
to take chances with Old Cross-eyes. He 
might, Terry reasoned, succeed in rushing 
through to the fire escape and get away before 
Cross-eyes could shoot. He would have to 
take that chance or face the certainty of be- 
ing killed by Dorn. 

Luck seemed to be against the fugitive, for 
Crawbuck had closed his door. It would be 
impossible to get through now without giving 
warning to the cross-eyed gunman inside. But 
there was no help for it; it was the only pos- 
sible chance. 

“Through here!” cried Terry, pushing the 
245 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


door open. “Quick! The fire escape by the 
window!” 

As Vorus darted in Terry banged the door 
shut behind him, and turned to face Dorn, 
who an instant too late had caught sight of 
the man he was after. 

“Get out of my way!” roared Dorn. 

Terry stood firm, his hands gripping tightly 
the knob of the door. Dorn laid hold of him 
savagely, and pulled him away. There had 
been a delay of an instant, however, and an in- 
stant might be enough to save Vorus’s life. 

Two shots, so close together that they 
seemed almost like a single report, rang out 
from the other side of the door a fraction of 
a second before Dorn pushed it open. 

The Texan found himself confronted by 
Crawbuck, a smoking gun in his hand. 

“I got him!” cried Old Cross-eyes. “He 
sure got what was cornin’ to him. He made 
for the window, the derned varmint. And 
I’d closed it tight not two minutes before.” 

246 


CHAPTER XIX 


THE PRINCE COMES INTO HIS OWN 

^THHE law and order element of the gulch 
came to the conclusion after the killing 
of Vorus that it was high time for the law to 
assert itself, and that Cross-eyes Crawbuck 
should be arrested. 

There was no precedent in the camp for 
such a proceeding, but two staid old store- 
keepers of influence in the community took the 
matter under consideration and decided that 
precedent was not necessary. The camp had 
just acquired a judge, a real estate speculator 
named Grover, who had been a lawyer in 
Denver, and what was the use of having a 
judge, argued the storekeepers, if nobody was 
going to be arrested. 

Things began to look bad for Cross-eyes. 

247 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


Unfortunately for him, public opinion had 
been against him from the first day of his ar- 
rival, owing to the difficulty there would be in 
deciding which way he was going to shoot in 
case he started trouble. After a good deal of 
street-corner discussion a meeting was called 
to take action in the matter. 

At this meeting Joe Teed presented some 
serious objections to the arrest of Old Cross- 
eyes. 

“I’d like to inquire,” said the editor, “who’s 
going to take this gazabo into custody. Mar- 
tin Dorn won’t do it. He was after Vorus 
himself. And I haven’t heard of any of the 
other boys being willing. They think Craw- 
buck had a good grievance against Vorus, and 
they can’t see why the law ought to interfere 
in a case like that. At least the boys that are 
good with their guns think that way, and 
they’re the only ones that would stand any 
chance in trying to get this geezer.” 

Judge Grover jumped to his feet. “I’ll 
248 


THE PRINCE COMES INTO HIS OWN 


arrest him myself,” he announced. The judge 
knew nothing about handling a gun, but he 
had the courage of his convictions. 

“And where you going to put him, judge, 
when you get him?” persisted the editor. 

This question required some consideration. 
There was no jail in Creede ; neither was there 
a jailer. “I’ll hire a jail, and I’ll appoint a 
jailer,” declared the judge after a moment of 
thought. 

At the conclusion of the meeting the judge 
walked over to the Grand Hotel, found Craw- 
buck, and informed him that he was under 
arrest. 

“Wh-what!” cried Cross-eyes, his voice 
shrill with astonishment. 

“I arrest you on a charge of homicide,” 
said the judge. 

“Homicide?” queried Cross-eyes. “What 
kind of a crime is that? Just speak plain Eng- 
lish and I’m willin’ to listen to you. But if 
this here charge is as bad as it sounds I ain’t 
249 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


guilty. I ain’t no angel, judge, but there’s 
some things too low for me to stoop to.” 

“Well, to be plain, the charge is killing 
Slim Vorus,” explained the judge. 

“Oh! Is that all?” said Cross-eyes with a 
look of relief. “Well, I’ll plead guilty to that 
all right. Whatcher goin’ to do? Fine me? 
I’ll fork over as high as ten dollars for the 
satisfaction of killing that worthless crittur.” 

“If you’re found guilty of murder in the 
first degree it’s a hanging offense,” returned 
the judge. 

Crawbuck’s mouth dropped open with 
amazement. 

“Well, what’s the world cornin’ to!” he ex- 
claimed at last. “You mean to tell me this 
burg is gettin’ so blamed civilized that it’ll 
arrest a man for murder? Why, judge, 
there’ll never be a minin’ camp jury that 
would find me guilty on a charge like that in 
a thousand years. But if it pleases you I’ll go 
along with you all right.” 

250 


THE PRINCE COMES INTO HIS OWN 


In course of time Old Cross-eyes was found 
guilty of manslaughter, with a recommenda- 
tion from the jury for mercy. The judge gave 
him six months in prison. 

The sentence caused a sensation. It was the 
first time in the gulch that a man had been 
punished through due course of law for kill- 
ing another, and it marked a turning point in 
the camp’s history. The law had asserted it- 
self at last. The time was close at hand when 
the name of Creede would no longer be a by- 
word throughout the West for violence and 
crime. 

In the meantime Terry had taken Dorn 
into partnership, and the two had come into 
possession of Old Bart’s strike. They scraped 
up enough free silver to buy mining machin- 
ery and to sink a shaft. In less than a month 
the mine was in full operation. 

A little later Dorn came back from one of 
his visits to Creede with an even wider grin 
than usual. 




THE SILVER PRINCE 


“I’ve had a talk with Effie,” he told Terry, 
“and it’s all right. She’ll have me. I told 
her I was a business man now and through 
with the gun play for good and all. And, son, 
between you and me she’s going to be a lot 
of help in running this here mine. She knows 
a heap more about business than I do. She’s 
got a wonderful head on her shoulders for a 
woman.” 

“That’s the good news I’ve been waiting 
for,” said Terry. “But you’ve sure been pow- 
erful slow about it. She’d have had you weeks 
ago if you’d asked her.” 

Dorn scratched his head and considered the 
matter a moment. “Well, mebbe,” he con- 
cluded. “But I was just a leetle bit scary, 
thinkin’ she might hold Vorus’s killing against 
me.” 

“But you didn’t kill Vorus.” 

“That’s so; but I meant to. She said she 
could forgive my bad intentions, but that if 
Old Cross-eyes hadn’t been so handy with his 
252 


THE PRINCE COMES INTO HIS OWN 


gun it would have been all off between her 
and me. That was your doing, son. If it 
hadn’t been for you the finest girl in the West 
wouldn’t be gettin’ ready to become Mrs. 
Martin Dorn.” 

“After you’re married I’ll be ready to quit,” 
said Terry. “You won’t need any help from 
me with Effie on the job. The day after the 
wedding I’m going to Denver to tell Dr. 
Gryerson I’m ready to study to be a surgeon.” 

Dorn’s grin disappeared for a moment. 
“It’ll be kind of hard bein’ without you, son,” 
he said, “but I reckon you’re doing the right 
thing. You’ll be a saver of lives, like Gryer- 
son, and that’ll be a heap sight better than 
bein’ a killer.” 

A month later in Denver Terry received a 
message from Dorn. 

“Don’t worry about money, son,” it said. 
“The old mine’s paying nine hundred dollars 
a ton. You’re going to be rich.” 

But Terry was too deeply interested in his 
253 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


studies at the moment to be particularly im- 
pressed by the news. “I’d give up the whole 
mine.” he told himself, “to be as big a surgeon 
as Dr. Gryerson.” 


CHAPTER XX 


CAL. SLATER’S GHOST 

I N the noon hour of a summer day Joe Teed 
walked briskly into the office of The War 
Whoop , and, after stripping off coat, vest and 
collar, sat down at his desk prepared to grind 
out the day’s budget of news. McWhorter, 
standing at his case setting type, turned a 
casual glance at the energetic combination of 
publisher, editor and reporter; then, becom- 
ing conscious of the fact that things were not 
quite as usual at the editorial desk, looked at 
him more intently. 

“Where’s your gun?” McWhorter de- 
manded. 

“It’s in my hip pocket, Mac, where it ought 
to be,” replied. Joe. “I’m not goin’ to keep 
it on my desk any more. This town’s gettin’ 
255 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


to be a real civilized metropolis now and we 
got to be gettin’ in line with the new order of 
things. We got to be changin’ our ways, Mac, 
and cuttin’ loose from our old minin’ camp 
habits.” 

The printer was so taken back by this dec- 
laration that he came very near to swallowing 
his quid of tobacco. A quick gulp was all 
that saved it. 

“Huh!” he grunted, after a prolonged stare 
at the editor. “I reckon you’ll be sittin’ with 
your back to the door next; and then some 
peevish person will slip in and plug you. 
That’s what you’ll get for growin’ too civil- 
ized.” 

The editor tilted back in his chair, and re- 
garded his sour-faced printer with severe dis- 
approval. “Mac,” he said, “you may be too 
old to change with the times. But I’m not. 
Too bad you can’t realize that Creede’s a real 
city now. No more gun play round here. If 
anybody gets gay with his shootin’ irons on 
256 


CAL. SLATER’S GHOST 

our avenues and boulevards he’ll be run out 
of town quick.” 

McWhorter, looking even more melancholy 
than usual, pondered deeply over these words 
as he filled his type stick. Then, with a sigh, 
he seemed to dismiss the unpleasant subject 
from his mind. “Picked up any real news 
this mornin’?” he asked. 

“Martin Dorn blew in from up in the 
mountains to-day,” Joe answered. “You just 
take it from me, Dorn’s got the makin’s of a 
good live business man. He’s got that claim 
of Terry McGlory’s workin’ full blast, and 
folks tell me he’s the best mine boss they ever 
saw.” 

“Huh!” growled McWhorter. “That all 
you heard?” 

“You bet it ain’t. I got a straight tip to-day 
that this town is going to have electric street 
cars in the fall. And electric lights, too, by 
thunder!” 

McWhorter sighed. These distant rumbles 
257 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


of the march of progress filled him with dark 
forebodings, for he dreaded the passing of the 
old days. 

Joe turned quickly, as he heard the door 
thrown open. Doc Calaway walked in, 
breathing hard and with a startled look in his 
eyes. 

“Joe,” he said solemnly, “didn’t you and me 
and Mac see Cal. Slater stowed away in his 
grave?” 

Joe nodded as he turned a bewildered look: 
at the doctor. 

“Wall, I was pretty positive I hadn’t 
dreamed it,” said the Doc. “But that same 
Cal. Slater is outside right now, lookin’ as 
much alive as I am.” 

The editor’s mouth dropped open as he 
studied Doc Calaway’s face. Then he gave a 
contemptuous snort. “Doc,” he said; “you’re 
gettin’ old.” 

“You and Mac come out and look for your- 
258 


CAL. SLATER’S GHOST 


selves if you don’t believe me,” persisted Cala- 
way. “I guess I ain’t too old to see straight.” 

The three men hastened outside, and the 
Doc pointed with a shaking hand to the front 
of the brand-new Palace Restaurant across 
the way. A tall, raw-boned man in chaps, 
flannel shirt and sombrero was standing in the 
restaurant doorway manipulating a toothpick 
under his heavy, drooping mustache. If it 
wasn’t Cal. Slater it was his living image. The 
resemblance was absolutely perfect. 

McWhorter turned white, and clutched at 
Joe Teed for support. “It’s Cal. all right!” he 
cried hoarsely. 

Joe turned a look of anxious inquiry at Doc 
Calaway. “What do you make of it, Doc?” 
he asked, his voice shaking a little in spite of 
his effort to control it. 

The Doc shook his head. “I ain’t no expert 
in such things,” he replied. “When it comes 
to life beyond the grave I’m as ignorant as a 
wild Injun.” 


259 


THE SILVER PRINCE 

Feeling fairly safe at that distance, Joe 
studied the apparition for a moment. “Doc,” 
he said at last, “I never knew ghosts used 
toothpicks, did you?” 

“They can use anythin’ they want for all I 
care,” returned the Doc. “I’m goin’ to get 
out of here.” 

But the editor was beginning to pluck up 
courage. “Come on, Doc,” he urged. “You 
oughtn’t to be afraid of ghosts at your age. 
We’ll cross over and glimpse this bird a little 
closer.” 

With a good deal of hesitation, the Doc and 
McWhorter accompanied Joe across the road. 
A nearer view showed an even closer resem- 
blance, if that were possible, between the man 
in the doorway and the dead and buried gun- 
man. Yet the mysterious figure before them 
seemed very natural and lifelike. There was 
nothing spectral about him so far as they could 
see. 

260 


CAL. SLATER’S GHOST 


Doc Calaway pulled himself together. “Is 
your name Slater?” he asked. 

The man slowly took the toothpick out of 
his mouth. “Yep ; that’s me,” he answered. 

The Doc’s fears returned. “You — you 
don’t mean to say you’re Cal. Slater?” he stam- 
mered, as McWhorter retreated a few steps. 

“I’m alive, ain’t I?” returned the man 
sharply. 

“Well, you — you look mighty like it to me,” 
stammered the Doc. 

“Like it! There ain’t no doubt of it. I’m 
alive, and Cal.’s dead. I’m his twin brother, 
Lem, just up from Tombstone, Arizona, and 
lookin’ with two guns in my belt for a feller 
named Martin Dorn. You know him?” 

The Doc gave a gasp of relief, and Teed 
and McWhorter drew closer. 

“Oh, so that’s it!” exclaimed Joe. “Well, 
just let me tell you, stranger, that you’re too 
late. This town’s passed the stage when it 
stood for gun fighters runnin 1 around lookin’ 
261 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


for victims. And I wouldn’t be handlin’ those 
shootin’ irons of yours if I was you or you’ll 
get run out in a hurry. And what’s more, you 
wouldn’t have a ghost of a chance of gettin’ 
Martin Dorn in a fair fight. Your only hope 
would be to lay for him in the dark, like your 
brother done, and shoot without givin’ him a 
show.” 

The man glared fiercely. “Yeah,” he 
snarled. “I’ve heard this feller Dorn’s been 
goin’ round lyin’ and boastin’ about that fight. 
But I’ll get him all right. The man don’t live 
that can kill my brother and get away with it.” 

A crowd was gathering around the little 
group in front of the restaurant. Already the 
news was spreading about town that Cal. 
Slater’s twin brother had arrived in Creede 
gunning for Dorn. 

“Say, Joe,” whispered Big Steve Bailey in 
Teed’s ear; “if this bloodthirsty hyena from 
Tombstone is anything like his brother Cal. 
was — and it’s plain enough that he is — he’ll 
262 


CAL. SLATER’S GHOST 


shoot Dorn in the back. He won’t give him a 
show. Is this town goin’ to stand for another 
dirty job like that?” 

“You betcher life it won’t,” replied the 
editor. “We got a buddin’ reputation as a 
clean, law-abidin’ community now, and we 
can’t have it spoiled. I reckon we’ll have to 
run this varmint out.” 

A moment later Big Steve stepped softly up 
behind the Tombstone gunman and caught 
him in an iron grip, pinioning his arms. In 
the same instant somebody in the crowd took 
possession of the stranger’s two guns. Before 
he could realize what had happened to him, 
the vengeful twin was being pushed and 
dragged and prodded along the road by a 
shouting mass of men. 

“Get a rope!” cried an old-timer from the 
cattle ranges. 

Joe Teed lifted his voice in protest. “Noth- 
in’ doin’ in the lynching line, gentlemen,” he 
shouted. “Remember, we got a reputation to 
263 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


sustain. We got to treat this bird accordin’ to 
the customs of civilization.” 

“We’ll give him the water cure, anyhow,” 
said Big Steve. “And then we’ll run him 
down the valley.” He caught the stranger by 
the arms, while Teed laid hold of the man’s 
legs. Between them and assisted by the near- 
est of the crowd, they carried him to a horse 
trough that stood conveniently at hand, and 
dropped him in with a tremendous splash. 

It was an event that marked a new era in 
Creede’s history; and Doc Calaway, as he 
watched the Tombstone desperado flounder- 
ing in the water, was convinced that the gun 
fighting days were gone forever. 


CHAPTER XXI 


THE GOOD OLD TIMES 

O N the porch of a low, rambling ranch 
* house overlooking the Sangre de Cristo 
Range, two men and a woman stood watching 
the sun going down behind the mountains. 
The woman was young, black-haired, blue- 
eyed, rosy-cheeked. On the face of the man 
beside her there was a boyish grin. A tall, 
strapping fellow he was, but his legs were 
slightly bowed. The second man was a few 
years younger, scarcely more than a boy. He 
wore spectacles, a result of hard studying in 
his student days in Denver. 

“Terry,” said the bow-legged man, “I see 
somebody headin’ this way down the ridge.” 

A man on horseback was riding slowly to- 
ward them. They watched him with curious 
265 


THE SILVER PRINCE 

interest. The arrival of a visitor was an event 
in that lonely mountain valley. 

A few minutes brought the rider close to 
the house. He swung out of his saddle, pulled 
off his sombrero, and wiped the dust from his 
perspiring face with his sleeve. He, too, was 
slightly bowed in the legs, but he was shorter 
and more slender than the older of the two 
men on the porch. His hair was fast turning 
gray, and he was getting well past the prime 
of life. Across his nose and cheek lay the 
deep scar of a wound made by a bowie knife. 

“Well, I’ll be hornswoggled if it isn’t 
Charlie Creek!” cried the man with the grin. 

“Hello, Martin!” called the visitor as he 
came toward the little group. “It’s good for 
sore eyes to see you and that there silver prince 
and Effie again. Brings back the good old 
days.” 

Selecting a chair, he sat down and stretched 
himself with a yawn. At his time of life a 
266 


THE GOOD OLD TIMES 


ride of seventy miles through the mountains 
was tiring. 

“I hear the kid here owns pretty near this 
whole bloomin’ valley,” he remarked. “Got 
it stocked up with horses and cattle. Pretty 
soft, prince, pretty soft. Sometimes I get to 
thinkin’ I wouldn’t much mind bein’ rich my- 
self.” 

“Well, Dorn owns a good slice of it,” put 
in Terry. “He and I are partners. I’d never 
have made good with that strike if it hadn’t 
been for him. Somebody’d have taken it away 
from me sure. And it took an older head than 
mine to run a big mining business like that. 
Nobody would have thought it, but Martin 
turned out to be an Ai business man.” 

Dorn turned to Effie with a grin. “It 
wasn’t me,” he said modestly. “It’s Effie 
that’s got the business head. She showed me 
how to do things. Remember how she ran 
that eatin’ house down in the gulch, servin’ a 
267 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


hundred meals a day and gettin’ the thing 
started on nothin’ but credit and nerve?” 

“Do I remember!” cried Creek, smacking 
his lips. “Say, Effie, it makes my mouth water 
every time I think of those biscuits o’ yours.” 

The sun went down behind the rim of the 
mountains, and the evening shadows gathered 
as they sat together talking of old times. 

“I was in Denver two days ago,” said 
Creek, “and I read the news there that Nick 
Creede killed himself last week in Los 
Angeles.” 

“Killed himself!” echoed Dorn. “Killed 
himself, when he had all that money? Why, 
he had everything to live for! He was like 
that Monte Cristo feller — the world was his.” 

Creek puffed his pipe contentedly, and 
stared at the towering range of mountains. 

“You’re wrong, Martin,” he said at last. 
“He didn’t have nothin’ to live for. He was 
never happy from the day he struck the Holy 
Moses. He’d been contented when he was 
268 


THE GOOD OLD TIMES 


roamin’ round broke in the hills. But when 
he got all that money he didn’t know what to 
do with his life. Money ain’t everything, 
Martin.” 

“No, money isn’t everything,” said Terry 
McGlory gravely. “If I hadn’t realized that 
pretty quick I’d have been as miserable as 
Nick Creede. That’s why I got right to work 
and studied to be a doctor. A man’s got to 
make himself useful in the world, no matter 
how rich he is, if he’s going to be contented.” 

The old gunman nodded his head know- 
ingly. 

“I’m satisfied,” he said. “But I get to 
wishin’ sometimes that the good old days was 
back, those old days of the gun fighters. And 
I should think you’d be wishin’ the same thing, 
Martin. You were a regular hero down in 
Creede in them boomin’ times.” 

Effie turned to the man who had once been 
Bull Morgan’s killer. 

“The good old days!” she repeated softly. 

269 


THE SILVER PRINCE 


“They weren’t the good old days. They only 
seem so when we look back at them. They 
were the worst kind of days, days of bloodshed 
and cruelty and murder. The good old days 
are here right now.” 

Martin Dorn grinned at her. “I reckon 
you’re right, Effie,” he said. 

id 


THE END 
























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